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POCAHONTAS, 



OTHER POEMS. 






MRS. L. ^H.^ SIGOURNEY. 



VT 1S71 



NEW-YORK: . 

HARPER & BROTHERS, CLIF F - STREET. 



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^"-l. 

-r ^i^ 



I 



CONTENTS. 



P»ge 

Pocahontas ^^ 



Widow at her Daughter's Bridal 39 

The Sun 41 

The Early Blue-bird 43 

The Ancient Monument 45 

Winter's Fete 47 

Native Scenery ^0 

Death of an Infant in its Mother's Arms 51 

Bread in the Wilderness 54 

Migration of Birds ^6 

" Show us the Father" 59 

The Rainy Day Gl 

Afraid to Die 63 

The Bereaved 65 

The Poet's Books 69 

Oak in Autumn 71 

Love not the World 72 

Visit to the Birthplace 73 

Funeral of a Neighbour 77. 

The Aged Bishop 79 

Power of the Almighty 82 

Home of the DueUist 84 

The Pilgrim 88 

Thoughts among the Trees . 90 

Farewell to a Rural Residence 92 

Folly 95 

The Departed Pastor 97 



X CONTENTS. 

Sacred Music 99 

The Ruins of Herod's Palace 102 

Monody on Mrs. Hemans 104 

The Widow's Prayer 107 

" Keep Silence" 109 

Abraham at Macpelah Ill 

" Jesus of Nazareth passes by" 113 

Good-night of the Birds 115 

The Dying Year 117 

Hymn at Sea 119 

The Departed Friend 120 

Heaven's Lesson 122 

Death of a Father 123 

"Oremus" 128 

Return of the Parents .130 

Pelican on the Sea of Galilee 132 

The Past 134 

Attending a former Pupil to the Grave 136 

The Heath in the Desert . . . ... . . .138 

Hymn in Sickness 139 

Request of the Dying Child 140 

The Church Bell 142 

The Butterfly 143 

Monody to Mrs. Sarah L. Smith 144 

A Father's Pity 147 

Midnight Thoughts at Sea 149 

Changes 151 

The Fireside 153 

Seed for Heaven 155 

Dreams 157 

Wife of a Missionary at her Husband's Grave . . . .160 

Sabbath Meditations 163 

The Sacred Poet 165 

The May-Flower 167 

The Tulip and Eglantine 170 

The Dying Mother 171 

The Tree of Love 173 

The Last Song 175 ^ 



CONTENTS. XI 

Pago 

The Mourner Comforted 177 

Art thou a Christian 1 . . 179 

A Name iso 

Last Words of an Indian Chief 181 

Sleeping Child 183 

Gemini 185 

To a Fragment of Cotton 188 

The Beautiful Child 191 

The Three Little Graves . . . . . . . .192 

To a Goose 194 

On hearing Sacred Music well Performed . . . .198 

Sonnet 199 

The New-England Village 200 

Laura Bridgman 202 

Death of a Friend 204 

True Wisdom 206 

The Mother Summoned 207 

Parting 209 

The Deep 211 

Planting Flowers on the Grave of Parents . . . .213 

*' Lord, remember us" 215 

Library of Dr. Bowditch 217 

The Sailor's Appeal 219 

Morn and Even 221 

Babe dying in its Mother's Absence 224 

The Greenland Convert 226 

Earth's Delusions 230 

Death of a young Man devoted to Missions . . . .231 

Approach of Spring 233 

Science and ReHgion 235 

The Divided Burden 236 

The Shipwreck 239 

Prayer at Sea 242 

Grassmere and Rydal Water 243 

Thoughts at the Grave of Sir Walter Scott . . . .246 

Farewell to Edinburgh 250 

Statue of the Spinning Girl 251 

Sheep on the Cheviot Hills 253 



Xil CONTENTS. 

Page 

Separation 255 

The Desolate Cottage 257 

The Elm-trees 261 

The Young Mother 264 

The MiUiners and Fishes 2G5 

The King of the Icebergs 269 

Vale of the Mohawk 272 

Love of Wealth 274 

Mutations . . 276 

Return of the Pastor 278 

Our Teachers 279 

Life's Evening 282 

The Winter Nosegay 283 



POCAHONTAS. 



Clime of the West ! that, slumbering long and deep, 
Beneath thy misty mountains' solemn shade, 

And, lull'd by melancholy winds that sweep 
The unshorn forest and untrodden glade. 

Heard not the cry when mighty empires died, 

Nor caught one echo from oblivion's tide. 
While age on age its stormy voyage made : 

See ! Europe, watching from her sea-girt shore, 
Extends the sceptred hand, and bids thee dream no more. 

IT. 

Say, was it sweet, in cradled rest to lie, 

And 'scape the ills that older regions know ? 

Prolong the vision'd trance of infancy. 

And hide from manhood's toil, mischance and wo ? 

Sweet, by the margin of thy sounding streams 

Freely to rove, and nurse illusive dreams. 

Nor taste the fruits on thorny trees that grow ? 

The evil, and the sorrow, and the crime. 
That make the harass'd earth grow old before her time ? 

III. 
Clime of the West ! that to the hunter's bow. 

And roving hordes of savage men, wert sold. 
Their cone-roof 'd wigwams pierced the wintry snow, 
Their tassel'd corn crept sparsely through the mould, 
B 



14 POCAHONTAS. 

Their bark canoes thy glorious waters clave, 
The chase their glory, and the wild their grave : 

Look up ! a loftier destiny behold. 
For to thy coast the fair-hair'd Saxon steers, 
Rich with the spoils of time, the lore of bards and seers. 

IV. 

Behold a sail ! another, and another ! 

Like living things on the broad river's breast ; 
What were thy secret thoughts, oh red-brow'd brother. 
As toward the shore those white-wing'd wanderers 
press'd ? 
But lo ! emerging from her forest-zone. 
The bow and quiver o'er her shoulder thrown. 

With nodding plumes her raven tresses dress'd. 
Of queenly step, and form erect and bold, 
Yet mute with wondering awe, the New World meets the 
Old. 



Roll on, majestic flood, in power and pride, 
Which like a sea doth swell old ocean's sway ; 

With hasting keel, thy pale-faced sponsors glide 
To keep the pageant of thy christening day : 

They bless thy wave, they bid thee leave unsung 

The uncouth baptism of a barbarous tongue. 
And take liis name — the Stuart's — first to bind 

The Scottish thistle in the lion's mane, 
Of all old Albion's kings, most versatile and vain. 



POCAHONTAS. 15 



VI. 

Spring robes the vales. With what a flood of light 
She holds her revels in this sunny clime ; 

The flower-sown turf, like bossy velvet bright, 
The blossom'd trees exulting in their prime, 

The leaping streamlets in their joyous play, 

The birds that frolic mid the diamond spray, 
Or heavenward soar, with melody sublime : 

What wild enchantment spreads a fairy wing, 
As from their prisoning ships the enfranchised strangers 
spring. 

VII. 

Their tents are pitch'd, their spades have broke the soil, 
The strong oak thunders as it topples down, 

Their lily-handed youths essay the toil, 

That from the forest rends its ancient crown : 

Where are your splendid halls, which ladies tread. 

Your lordly boards, with every luxury spread, 
Virginian sires — ye men of old renown ? 

Though few and faint, your ever-living chain 
Holds in its grasp two worlds, across the surging main, 

VIII. 

Yet who can tell what fearful pangs of wo 

Those weary-hearted colonists await, 
When to its home the parting ship must go. 

And leave them in their exile, desolate ? 
Ah, who can paint the peril and the pain. 
The failing harvest, and the famish'd train. 

The wily foe, with ill-dissembled hate. 



16 POCAHONTAS. 

The sickness of the heart, the wan despair, 
Pining for one fresh draught of its dear native air ? 

IX. 

Yet, mid their cares, one hallow'd dome they rear'd, 
To nurse devotion's consecrated flame ; 

And there a wondering world of forests heard. 
First borne in solemn chant, Jehovah's name ; 

First temple to his service, refuge dear 

From strong affliction and the alien's tear, 

How svvell'd the sacred song, in glad acclaim ; 

England, sweet mother ! many a fervent prayer 
There pour'd its praise to Heaven for all thy love and care. 

X. 

And they who 'neath the vaulted roof had bow'd 
Of some proud minster of the olden time. 

Or where the vast cathedral towards the cloud 
Rear'd its dark pile in symmetry sublime. 

While through the storied pane the sunbeam play'd. 

Tinting the pavement with a glorious shade. 

Now breath'd from humblest fane their ancient chime 

And learn'd they not, His presence sure might dwell 
With every seeking soul, though bow'd in lowliest cell ? 

• XI. 

Yet not quite unadorn'd their house of prayer : 
The fragrant offspring of the genial morn 

They duly brought ; and fondly ofFer'd there 
The bud that trembles ere the rose is born, 

The blue clematis, and the jasmine pale. 

The scarlet woodbine, waving in the gale. 
The rhododendron, and the snowy thorn, 



POCAHONTAS. 17 

The rich magnolia, with its foliage fair, 
High priestess of the flowers, whose censer fills the air. 

XII. 

Might not such incense please thee. Lord of love ? 

Thou, who with bounteous hand dost deign to show 
Some foretaste of thy Paradise above, 

To cheer the way-worn pilgrim here below ? 
Bidd'st thou mid parching sands the flow'ret meek 
Strike its frail root and raise its tinted cheek, 

And the slight pine defy the arctic snow. 
That even the skeptic's frozen eye may see 
On Nature's beauteous page what lines she writes of 
Thee? 

XIII. 

What groups, at Sabbath morn, were hither led ! 

Dejected men, with disappointed frown, 
Spoil'd youths, the parents' darling and their dread, 

From castles in the air hurl'd ruthless down, 
The sea-bronzed mariner, the warrior brave. 
The keen gold-gatherer, grasping as the grave ; 

Oft, mid these mouldering walls, which nettles crown, 
Stern breasts have lock'd their purpose and been still, 
And contrite spirits knelt, to learn their Maker's will. 

XIV. 

Here, in his surplice white, the pastor stood, 

A holy man, of countenance serene. 
Who, mid the quaking earth or fiery flood 

Unmoved, in truth's own panoply, had been 
B 2 



J8 POCAHONTAS. 

A fair example of his own pure creed ; 
Patient of error, pitiful to need, 

Persuasive wisdom in his thoughtful mien, 
And in that Teacher's heavenly meekness bless'd, 
Who laved his followers' feet with towel-girded vest. 

XV. 

Music upon the breeze ! the savage stays 
His flying arrow as the strain goes by ; 

He starts ! he listens ! lost in deep amaze, 

Breath half-suppress'd, and lightning in his eye. 

Have the clouds spoken 1 Do the spirits rise 

From his dead fathers' graves, with wildering melodies ? 
Oft doth he muse, 'neath midnight's solemn sky, 

On those deep tones, which, rising o'er the sod. 
Bore forth, from hill to hill, the white man's hymn to 
God. 

XVI. 

News of the strangers stirr'd Powhatan's dreams. 

The mighty monarch of the tribes that roam 
A thousand forests, and on countless streams 

Urge the swift bark and dare the cataract's foam ; 
The haughtiest chieftains in his presence stood 
X/ Tame as a child, and from the field of blood 

His war-cry thrill'd with fear the foeman's home : 
His nod was death, his frown was fix'd as fate. 
Unchangeable his love, invincible his hate. 



POCAHONTAS. 19 

XVII. 

A forest-child, amid the flowers at play ! 

Her raven locks in strange profusion flowing ; 
A sweet, wild girl, with eye of earnest ray, 

And olive cheek, at each emotion glowing ; 
Yet, whether in her gladsome frolic leaping, 
Or 'neath the greenwood shade unconscious sleeping, 

Or with light oar her fairy pinnace rowing. 
Still, like the eaglet on its new-fledged wing, 
Her spirit-glance bespoke the daughter of a king, 

XVIII. 

But he, that wily monarch, stern and old, 

Mid his grim chiefs, with barbarous trappings bright, 

That morn a court of savage state did hold. 

The sentenced captive see — his brow how white ! 

Stretch'd on the turf his manly form lies low, , '' 

The war-club poises for its fatal blow, 

The death. mist swims before his darken'd sight : 

Forth springs the child, in tearful pity bold. 
Her head on his declines, her arms his neck enfold. 

XIX. 

" The child ! what madness fires her ? Hence ! Depart ! 

Fly, daughter, fly ! before the death-stroke rings ; 
Divide her, warriors, from that English heart." 

In vain ! for with convulsive grasp she cHngs : 
She claims a pardon from her frowning sire ; 
Her pleading tones subdue his gather'd ire ; 

And so, uplifting high his feathery dart, 
That doting father gave the child her will. 
And bade the victim live, and be his servant still. 



20 POCAHONTAS. 

XX. 

Know'st thou what thou hast done, thou dark-hair'd child 
What great events on thy compassion hung ? 

What prowess lurks beneath yon aspect mild, 
And in the accents of that foreign tongue ? 

As little knew the princess who descried 

A floating speck on Egypt's turbid tide, 
A bulrush-ark the matted reeds among, 

And, yielding to an infant's tearful smile. 
Drew forth Jehovah's seer, from the devouring Nile. 

XXI. 

^ In many a clime, in many a battle tried, 

By Turkish sabre and by Moorish spear ; 
Mid Afric's sands, or Russian forests wide. 
Romantic, bold, chivalrous, and sincere. 
Keen-eyed, clear-minded, and of purpose pure, 
Dauntless to rule, or patient to endure. 

Was he whom thou hast rescued with a tear : 
Thou wert the saviour of the Saxon vine. 
And for this deed alone our praise and love are thine. 

XXII. 

Nor yet for this alone shall history's scroll 
Embalm thine image with a grateful tear ; 

For when the grasp of famine tried the soul. 

When strength decay'd, and dark despair was near. 

Who led her train of playmates, day by day, 

O'er rock, and stream, and wild, a weary way. 
Their baskets teeming with the golden ear ? 

Whose generous hand vouchsafed its tireless aid 
To guard a nation's germ ? Thine, thine, heroic maid ! 



POCAHONTAS. 2l 

XXIII. 

On sped the tardy seasons, and the hate 

Of the pale strangers wrung the Indian breast. 
Their hoary prophet breathed the ban of fate : 

"Hence with the thunderers ! Hide their race, un- 
bless'd, 
Deep 'neath the soil they falsely call their own ; 
For from our fathers' graves a hollow moan, 

Like the lash'd surge, bereaves my soul of rest. 
* They come ! They come !' it cries. * Ye once were 
brave : 
Will ye resign the world that the Great Spirit gave V " 

XXIV. 

Yet 'neath the settled countenance of guile 

They veil'd their vengeful purpose, dark and dire, 

And wore the semblance of a quiet smile. 
To lull the victim of their deadly ire : 

But ye, who hold of history's scroll the pen. 

Blame not too much those erring, red-brow'd men. 
Though nursed in wiles. Fear is the white-hpp'd sire 

Of subterfuge and treachery. 'Twere in vain 
To bid the soul be true, that writhes beneath his chain. 

XXV. 

Night, moonless night ! The forest hath no sound 
But the low shiver of its dripping leaves. 

Save here and there, amid its depths profound. 
The sullen sigh the prowling panther heaves, 

Save the fierce growling of the cubless bear. 

Or tramp of gaunt wolf rushing from his lair, 

Where its slow coil the poisonous serpent weaves : 



22 POCAHONTAS. 

Who dares the dangerous path at hour so wild, 
With fleet and fawnlike step ? Powhatan's fearless child ! 

XXVI. 

" Up. up — away ! I heard the words of power, 
Those secret vows that seal a nation's doom, 

Bid the red flame burst forth at midnight hour, 

And make th' unconscious slumberer's bed his tomb, 

Spare not the babe — the rose-leaf of a day — 

But shred the sapling, like the oak, away. 

I heard the curse ! My soul is sick with gloom : 

Wake, chieftains, wake ! avert the hour of dread !" 
And with that warning voice the guardian-angel fled. 

xxvii. 
On sped the seasons, and the forest-child 

Was rounded to the symmetry of youth ; 
While o'er her features stole, serenely mild, 

The trembling sanctity of woman's truth, 
Her modesty, and simpleness, and grace : 
Yet those who deeper scan the human face. 

Amid the trial-hour of fear or ruth. 
Might clearly read, upon its heaven-writ scroll. 
That high and firm resolve which nerved the Roman soul. 

XXVIII. 

The simple sports that charm'd her childhood's way, 
Her greenwood gambols mid the matted vines, 

The curious glance of wild and searching ray, 
Where innocence with ignorance combines. 

Were changed for deeper thought's persuasive air. 

Or that high port a princess well might wear : 
So fades the doubtful star when morning shines ; 



POCAHONTAS. 23 

So melts the young dawn at the enkindling ray, 
And on the crimson cloud casts off its mantle gray. 

XXIX. 

On sped the tardy seasons. Need I say 

What still the indignant lyre declines to tell ? 

How, by rude hands, the maiden, borne away, 
Was forced amid the invaders' homes to dwell ? 

Yet no harsh bonds the guiltless prisoner wore, 

No sharp constraint her gentle spirit bore, 
Held as a hostage in the stranger's cell ; 

So, to her wayward fate submissive still. 
She meekly bow'd her heart to learn a Saviour's will. 

XXX. 

And holy was the voice that taught her ear 
How for our sins the Lord of life was slain ; 

While o'er the listener's bosom flow'd the tear 
Of wondering gratitude, like spring-tide rain. 

New joys burst forth, and high resolves were born 

To choose the narrow path that worldlings scorn, 
And walk therein. Oh, happy who shall gain 

From the brief cloud that in his path may lie 
A heritage sublime, a mansion in the sky. 

XXXI. 

In graceful youth, within the house of prayer, 
Who by the sacred font so humbly kneels. 

And with a tremulous yet earnest air, 

The deathless vow of Christian fealty seals ? 

The Triune Name is breathed with hallow'd power, 

The dew baptismal bathes the forest-flower, 
And, lo ! her chasten'd smile that hope reveals 



24 POCAHONTAS. 

Which nerved the weary dove o'er floods unblessed 
The olive-leaf to pluck, and gain the ark of rest. 

XXXII. 

Pour forth your incense ; fragrant shrubs and flowers, 
Wave your fresh leaflets, and with beauty glow ; 

And wake the anthem in your choral bowers, 

Birds, whose warm hearts with living praise o'erflow ; 

For she who loved your ever-varied dyes, 

Mingling her sweet tones with your symphonies, 
Seeks higher bliss than charms like yours bestow — 

A home unchangeable — an angel's wing — 
Where is no fading flower, nor lute with jarring string. 

XXXIII. 

Another change. The captive's lot grew fair : 

A soft illusion with her reveries blent. 
New charms dispell'd her solitary care. 

And hope's fresh dewdrops gleam'd where'er she went ; 
Earth seem'd to glow with Eden's purple light, 
The fleeting days glanced by on pinions bright, 

And every hour a rainbow lustre lent ; 
While, with his tones of music in her ear. 
Love's eloquence inspired the high-born cavalier. 

XXXIV. 

Yet love, to her pure breast was but a name 
For kindling knowledge, and for taste refined, 

A guiding lamp, whose bright, mysterious flame 
Led on to loftier heights the aspiring mind. 

Hence flow'd the idiom of a foreign tongue 

All smoothly o'er her lip ; old history flung 
Its annal wide, like banner on the wind, 



POCAHONTAS. 25 

And o'er the storied page, with rapture wild, 
A new existence dawn'd on nature's fervent child. 

XXXV. 

A throng is gathering ; for the hallow'd dome 
At evening tide is rich with sparkling light. 

And from its verdant bound each rural home 
Sends forth its blossom'd gifts, profusely bright ; 

While here and there, amid the clustering flowers, 

Some stately chief or painted warrior towers, 
Hail'd as a brother mid the festal rite : 

Peace waves her garland o'er the favour'd place 
Where weds the new-born West, with Europe's lordly- 
race. 

XXXVI. 

A group before the altar. Breathe thy vow, 
Loving and stainless one, without a fear ; 

For he who wins thee to his bosom now. 
Gem of the wild, unparalleled and dear. 

Will guard thee ever, as his treasure rare, 

With changeless tenderness and constant care ; 
How speaks his noble brow a soul sincere. 

While the old white-hair'd king, with eye of pride, 
Gives to his ardent hand the timid, trusting bride. 

XXXVII. 

Not with more heartfelt joy the warlike bands 
Of Albion, spent with long, disastrous fray, 

Beheld young Tudor cleanse his blood-stain'd hands, 
And lead the blooming heir of York away, 
C 



26 POCAHONTAS. 

'Neath the sweet music of the marriage bells ; 
Then on those tented hills and ravaged dells 

The War of Roses died : no more the ray 
Of white or red, the fires of hate illumed, 
But from their blended roots the rose of Sharon bloom'd. 

XXXVIII. 

Young wife, how beautiful the months swept by. 

Within thy bower methinks I view thee still : 
The meek observance of thy lifted eye 

Bent on thy lord, and prompt to do his will, 
The care for him, the happiness to see 
His soul's full confidence repose in thee, 

The sacrifice of self, the ready skill 
In duty's path, the love without alloy. 
These gave each circling year a brighter crown of joy. 

XXXIX. 

Out on the waters ! On the deep, deep sea ! 

Out, out upon the waters ! Surging foam, 
Swell'd by the winds, rolls round her wild and free. 

And memory wandereth to her distant home. 
To fragrant gales, the blossom'd boughs that stir. 
To the sad sire who fondly dreams of her ; 

But kindhng smiles recall the thoughts that roam. 
For at her side a bright-hair'd nursling plays. 
While bends her bosom's lord with fond, delighted gaze. 

XL. 

And this is woman's world. It matters not 
Though in the trackless wilderness she dwell. 

Or on the cliff where hangs the Switzer's cot. 
Or in the subterranean Greenland cell : 



POCAHONTAS. 27 

Her world is in the heart. Rude storms may rise, 
And dark eclipse involve ambition's skies, 

But dear affection's flame burns pure and well, 
And therefore 'tis, with such a placid eye, 
Slie sooths her loved ones' pangs, or lays her down to die. 

XLI. 

Lo ! Albion's cliffs, in glorious light that shine, 
Welcome the princess of the infant West. 

'Twas nobly done, thou queen of Stuart's line, 
To sooth the tremours of that stranger's breast ; 

And when, upon thy ladies richly dight, 

She, through a flood of ebon tresses bright, 
Uplifts the glances of a timid guest, 

What saw she there ? The greeting smiles that brought 
O'er her own lofty brow its native hues of thought. 

XLII. 

But what delighted awe her accents breathed, 
The gorgeous domes of ancient days to trace, 

The castellated towers, with ivy wreathed, 
The proud mementoes of a buried race ; 

Or 'neath some mighty minster's solemn pile. 

Dim arch, and fretted roof, and long-drawn aisle. 
How rush'd the heart's blood wildly to her face. 

When, from the living organ's thunder-chime. 
The full Te Deum burst in melody sublime. 

XLIII. 

Yet, mid the magic of those regal walls, 

The glittering train, the courtier's flattering tone. 

Or by her lord, through fair ancestral halls. 
Led on, to claim their treasures as her own, 



28 POCAHONTAS. 

Stole back the scenery of her solitude : 
An aged father, in his cabin rude, 

Mix'd with her dreams a melancholy moan, 
Notching his simple calendar with pain, 
And straining his red eye to watch the misty main. 

XLIV. 

Prayer, prayer for him ! when the young dawn arose 
With its gray banner, or red day declined. 

Up went his name, forever blent with those 

Most close and strong around her soul entwined, 

Husband and child ; and, as the time drew near 

To fold him to her heart with filial tear. 

For her first home her warm affections pined. 

That time — it came not ! for a viewless hand 
Was stretch'd to bar her foot from her green childhood's 
land. 

XLV. 

Sweet sounds of falling waters, cool and clear, 
The crystal streams, her playmates, far away. 

Oft, oft their dulcet music mock'd her ear. 
As, restless, on her fever'd couch she lay ; 

Strange visions hover'd round, and harpings high. 

From spirit-bands, and then her lustrous eye 
Welcomed the call ; but earth resumed its sway, 

And all its sacred ties convulsive twined. 
How hard to spread the wing, and leave the loved be- 
hind. 



POCAHONTAS. 29 

XLVI. 

Sunset in England at the autumn prime ! 

Through foliage rare, what floods of light were sent ! 
The full and whitening harvest knew its time, 

And to the sickle of the reaper bent ; 
Forth rode the winged seeds upon the gale. 
New homes to find ; but she, with lip so pale. 

Who on the arm of her beloved leant, 
Breathed words of tenderness, with smile serene, 
Though faint and full of toil, the gasp and groan between. 

XLVII. 

" Oh, dearest friend. Death, cometh ! He is here, 
Here at my heart ! Air ! air ! that I may speak 

My hoarded love, my gratitude sincere, 
To thee and to thy people. But I seek 

In vain. Though most unworthy, yet I hear 

A call, a voice too bless'd for mortal ear ;" 
And with a marble coldness on her cheek. 

And one long moan, like breaking harp-string sweet. 
She bare the unspoken lore to her Redeemer's feet. 

XLVIII. 

Gone ? Gone ? Alas ! the burst of wild despair 
That rent his bosom who had loved so well ; 

He had not yet put forth his strength to bear, 
So suddenly and sore the death-shaft fell : 

Man hath a godlike might in danger's hour, 

In the red battle, or the tempest's power ; 
Yet is he weak when tides of anguish swell ; 
C 2 



30 POCAHONTAS. 

Ah, who can mark with cold and tearless eyes 
The grief of stricken man when his sole idol dies ! 

XLIX. 

And she had fled, in whom his heart's deep joy- 
Was garner'd up ; fled, like the rushing flame, 

And left no farewell for her fair young boy. 
Lo ! in his nurse's arms he careless came, 

A noble creature, with his full dark eye 

And clustering curls, in nature's majesty ; 
But, with a sudden shriek, his mother's name 

Burst from his lips, and, gazing on the clay, 
He stretch'd his eager arms where the cold sleeper lay. 

L. 

" Oh mother ! mother !" Did that bitter cry 
Send a shrill echo through the realm of death ? 

Look, to the trembling fringes of the eye. 
List, the sharp shudder of returning breath, 

The spirit's sob ! They lay him on her breast ; 

One long, long kiss on his bright brow she press'd.; 
Even from heaven's gate of bliss she lingereth, 

To breathe one blessing o'er his precious head. 
And then her arm unclasps, and she is of the dead. 

LI. 

The dead ! the sainted dead ! why should we weep 
At the last change their settled features take ? 

At the calm impress of that holy sleep 

Which care and sorrow never more shall break ? 

Believe we not His word who rends the tomb. 

And bids the slumberers from that transient gloom 
In their Redeemer's glorious image wake ? 



POCAHONTAS. 31 

Approach we not the same sepulchral bourne 
Swift as the shadow fleets ? What time have we to mourn ? 



LII. 

A little time thou found'st, O pagan king, 

A little space, to murmur and repine : 
Oh, bear a few brief months affliction's sting. 

And gaze despondent o'er the billowy brine, 
And then to the Great Spirit, dimly traced 
Through cloud and tempest, and with fear embraced, 

In doubt and mystery, thy breath resign ; 
And to thy scorn'd and perish'd people go. 
From whose long-trampled dust our flowers and herbage 

grow. 

LIII. 

Like the fallen leaves those forest-tribes have fled : 
Deep 'neath the turf their rusted weapon lies ; 

No more their harvest lifts its golden head, 

Nor from their shaft the stricken red-deer flies : 

But from the far, far west, where holds, so hoarse. 

The lonely Oregon, its rock-strewn course. 
While old Pacific's sullen surge replies. 

Are heard their exiled murmurings deep and low. 
Like one whose smitten soul departeth full of wo. 

LIV. 

I would ye were not, from your fathers' soil, 
Track'd like the dun wolf, ever in your breast 

The coal of vengeance and the curse of toil ; 
I would we had not to your mad lip prest 



32 POCAHONTAS. 

The fiery poison-cup, nor on ye turn'd 

The blood-tooth'd ban-dog, foaming, as he burn'd 

To tear your flesh ; but thrown in kindness bless'd 
The brother's arm around ye, as ye trod. 
And led ye, sad of heart, to the bless'd Lamb of God. 

LV. 

Forgotten race, farewell ! Your haunts we tread, 
Our mighty rivers speak your words of yore, 

Our mountains wear them on their misty head. 
Our sounding cataracts hurl them to the shore ; 

But on the lake your flashing oar is still, 

Hush'd is your hunter's cry on dale and hill, 
Your arrow stays the eagle's flight no more ; 

And ye, like troubled shadows, sink to rest 
In unremember'd tombs, unpitied and unbless'd. 

LVI. 

The council- fires are quench'd, that erst so red 
Their midnight volume mid the groves entwined ; 

King, stately chief, and warrior-host are dead, 
Nor remnant nor memorial left behind : 

But thou, O forest-princess, true of heart. 

When o'er our fathers waved destruction's dart, 
Shalt in their children's loving hearts be shrined ; 

Pure, lonely star, o'er dark oblivion's wave, 
It is not meet thy name should moulder in the grave. 



NOTES. 



stanza iii., line 4. 

Their tasseVd com. 
To those not familiar with the appearance of the Indian corn, on whose 
cultivation the aborigines of America relied as a principal article of subsist- 
ence, it may be well to say that a silky fibre, sometimes compared to a tas- 
sel, is protruded from the extremity of the sheath which envelops the gold- 
en ear, or sheaf of that stately and beautiful vegetable. 

Stanza vi., hne 1. 
Spring robes the vales. 
The ships which bore the Virginian colonists— the founders of our na- 
tion—entered the Chesapeake April 26, 1607 ; and on the 13th of May, five 
months from the time of setting sail from England, which was December 
19th, 1606, a permanent embarkation was eflfected at Jamestown, fifty miles 
up that noble river, to which the name of James was given, in honour of 
the reigning monarch. 

Stanza vii., line 3. 
Their lily-handed youths essay the toil. 
" The axe frequently bhstered their tender fingers, so that many times 
every third blow had a loud oath to drown its echo." — Millard's Life of 
Captain Smith. 

Stanza ix., line 8. 
England, sweet mother. 
" Lord, bless England, our sweet native country," was the morning and 
evening prayer in the church at Jamestown, the first church erected in our 
Western world. 



84 NOTES. 

Stanza xi., line 2. 
The fragrant offspring of the genial morn 
They duly brought. 
" At the beginning of each day they assembled in the little church, which 
was kept neatly trimmed with the wild flowers of the coxxnixy.'"— Bancroft, 
vol. i., p. 141. 

Stanza xiii., line 3. 
Spoil'd youths. 
" A great part of the new company who came out in 1609," says the 
historian Stith, " consisted of unruly sparks, packed off by their friends to 
escape worse destinies at home. The rest were chiefly made up of poor 
gentlemen, broken tradesmen, footmen, and such others as were fitter to 
spoil and ruin a commonwealth than to help to raise and maintain one. 
' When you send again,' Captain Smith was constrained to write to the 
Corporation in London, 'I entreat you, rather send but thirty carpenters, 
husbandmen, gardeners, fishermen, blacksmiths, masons, and diggers-up 
of trees' roots, than a thousand of such as we have.' " 

Stanza xiv., line 1. 
Here, in his surplice white, the pastor stood, 
♦' The morning-star of the church was the Rev. Mr. Hunt, sent out by 
the London company in 160G, among the leaders of the infant colony. It 
was he who administered the sacrament of the Lord's Supper for the first 
time in Virginia at Jamestown, the first permanent habitation of the Eng- 
lish in America, and the site of the first Christian temple. He was a man 
of a truly humble, meek, and peaceful spirit, and it is impossible now to es- 
timate the value of the beneficial influence he exercised upon the fortunes 
of the colony. His kind oflUces as peacemaker were frequently interposed 
to harmonize differences which would have been fatal to the enterprise ; 
and his example of suffering affliction, and of patience in sickness, in pov- 
erty, in peril, cheered his drooping companions, inspiring them with such 
fortitude, and stimulating them to such efforts, as, with the blessing of 
Providence, enabled them to maintain their difficult positions." — Rev. 
Philip Slaughter. 

Stanza xvi., line 2. 
The mighty monarch of the tribes that roam 
A thousand forests. 
Powhatan, the king of the country where the founders of Virginia first 



NOTES. 35 

chose their residence, was said to hold dominion over thirty nations or 
tribes who inhabited that region ; and being possessed both of arbitrary 
power and much native talent, his enmity was dreaded, and pains taken by 
the colonists to conciliate his friendship. 

Stanza xvii., line 1. 
A forest-child, amid the flowers at play. 
" Pocahontas, the daughter of Powhatan, a girl often or twelve years of 
age, who, not only for feature, countenance, and expression, much exceed- 
ed any of the rest of her people, but for wit and spirit was the only non- 
pareil of the country."— Cop^am John Smith. 

Stanza xix., line 9. 
And bade the victim live, and be his servant still. 
" Live ! live !" said the softened monarch, " and make hatchets for me 
and necklaces for Pocahontas." 

Stanza xxi., line 6. 
Dauntless to rule, or patient to endure. 
The extraordinary features in the character of Captain John Smith, and 
the strange incidents which made almost the whole of his life a romance, 
are exhibited by many historians. Hillard, in his biography of him, says, 
" We see him performing at the same time the offices of a provident gov- 
ernor, a valiant soldier, an industrious labourer, capable alike of command- 
ing and of executing. He seemed to court the dangers from which other 
men shrank, or which they encountered only from a sense of duty. As 
the storm darkens around him, his spirit grows more bright and serene. 
That which appals and disheartens others only animates him. He had a 
soul of fire, encased in a frame of adamant. Thus was he enabled to en- 
dure and accomplish all the promptings of his adventurous spirit." "He 
was the father of Virginia," says Bancroft in his history, '* the true leader 
who first planted the Saxon vine in the United States." 

Stanza xxii., line 7. 
Their baskets teeming with the golden ear. 
When the colony was in danger of utter extinction from the want of 
food, her zeal and benevolence never slumbered. Accompanied by her 
companions, the child Pocahontas came every few days to the fort with 
baskets of com for the starving garrison. Smith, in his letter to Queen 
Anne, writes, " She, next under God, was the instrument to preserve this 
colony from death, famine, and utter confusion, which, if in those times 



36 NOTES. 

had once been dissolved, Virginia might have lain as it was at our first 
arrival unto this day." 

Stanza xxvi,, line 9. 
And, with that warning voice, the guardian angel fled. 
" Notwithstanding, the eternal, all-seeing God did prevent the plot of 
Powhatan, and by a strange means. For Pocahontas, his dearest jewel 
and daughter, came through the irksome woods in that dark night, and 
told us that great cheer might be sent us by-and-by, but that the king, and 
all the power he could make, would afterward come and kill us all. There- 
fore, if we would live, she wished us presently to be gone. Such things as 
she delighted in we would have given her ; but, with tears running down 
her cheeks, she said she durst not be seen to have them ; for, if Powhatan 
should know it, she were but dead. And so she ran away by herself, as 
she came," — Captain Smith. 

Stanza xxix., line 7. 
Held as a hostage. 
The object of the capture and detention of the princess seems to have 
been to bring her father to such terms as the colonists desired, or to extort 
from him a large ransom ; both of which designs were frustrated. 

Stanza xxxv., line 9. 
Where weds the new-bor^i West with Europe's lordly race. 
The marriage of Mr. Rolfe with Pocahontas took place in the church at 
Jamestown in the month of April, 1613, and gave great delight to Pow- 
hatan and his chieftains, who were present at the ceremony, and also to the 
English, and proved a bond of peace and amity between them as lasting 
as the life of the Indian king. 

Stanza xxxvii,, line 9. 
But from their blended roots the rose of Sharon bloorn'd. 
The rose striped with white and red, sometimes called the rose of Sha- 
ron, has been said, in some ancient legend, to have been first seen in Eng- 
land after the marriage of Henry VII. to Elizabeth, daughter of Edward 
IV,, when the civil war which had so long raged with bitterness was ter- 
minated, and the Red Rose of Lancaster and the White Rose of York 
ceased to be the unnatural symbols of bloodshed. 



NOTES. 37 



Stanza xli,, line 3. 
' Twas nobly done, thou queen of Stuart'' s line. 
On the 12th of June, 1616, Mr. Rolfe, with his Indian wife, who, after 
her baptism, was known by the name of the Lady Rebecca, arrived in 
England. Her merits had preceded her, and secured for her the attentions 
and hospitality of persons of rank and influence. The queen of James I., 
the reigning monarch, treated her with affability and respect. " It pleased 
both the king's and queen's majesties," writes Captain Smith, " honoura- 
bly to esteem her, accompanied with that honourable lady, the Lady Del- 
aware, and that honourable lord her husband, and divers other persons of 
good quality, both publicly and at the masks and concerts, to her great sat- 
isfaction and content." 

Stanza xliii., line 8. 
Notching his simple calendar. 
The mode of computation by cutting notches upon a stick prevailed 
among many of our aboriginal tribes. One of the council of Powhatan, 
who accompanied Pocahontas, was directed in this manner to mark the 
number of the people he might meet. He obtained a very long cane on his 
landing, and commenced the task. But he soon became weary of this man- 
ner of taking the census, and, on his return home, said to his king, " Count 
the stars in the sky, the leaves on the trees, the sands on the seashore, but 
not the people of England." 

Stanza 1., line 9. 
And then her arm unclasps, and she is of the dead. 
Early in the year 1617, while preparing to return to her native land, she 
was taken sick, and died at the age of twenty-two. She was buried at 
Gravesend. Her firmness and resignation proved the sincerity of her piety ; 
and, as Bancroft eloquently observes, " She was saved, as if by the hand of 
mercy, from beholding the extermination of the tribes from which she 
sprang, leaving a spotless name, and dwelling in memory under the form of 
perpetual youth." 

D 



WIDOW AT HER DAUGHTER'S BRIDAL. 



Deal gently thou, whose hand hath won 

The young bird from its nest away, 
Where careless, 'neath a vernal sun, 

She gayly caroU'd, day by day ; 
The haunt is lone, the heart must grieve. 

From whence her timid wing doth soar. 
They pensive list at hush of eve, 

Yet hear her gushing song no more. 

Deal gently with her ; thou art dear, 

Beyond what vestal lips have told. 
And, like a lamb from fountains clear, 

She turns confiding to thy fold ; 
She, round thy sweet domestic bower 

The wreath of changeless love shall twine. 
Watch for thy step at vesper hour. 

And blend her holiest prayer with thine. 

Deal gently thou, when, far away. 

Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove, 
Nor let thy tender care decay — 

The soul of woman lives in love : 
And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tear, 

Unconscious, from her eyelids break, 
Be pitiful, and sooth the fear 

That man's strong heart may ne'er partake. 



40 WIDOW AT HER DAUGHTER S BRIDAL. 

A mother yields her gem to thee, 

On thy true breast to sparkle rare, 
She places 'neath thy household tree 

The idol of her fondest care, 
And by thy trust to be forgiven, 

When judgment wakes in terror wild, 
By all thy treasured hopes of heaven. 

Deal gently with the widow's child. 



THE SUN. 



Eye of thy Maker, which hath never slept 

Since the Eternal Voice from chaos said 

" Let there he light /" great monarch of the day, 

How shall our dark, cold strain, fit welcome speak. 

Fit praise ? Lo ! the poor pagan, kneehng, views 

Thy burning chariot, to the highest sky 

Roll on resistless, and with awe exclaims, 

" The god ! The god !" And shall we blame his creed, 

For whom no heaven hath open'd, to reveal 

A better faith 1 Where else could he descry 

Such image of the Deity ? such power 

With goodness blending 1 From the reedy grass, 

Wiry and sparse, that in the marshes springs, 

To the most tremulous and tender shoot 

Of the mimosa, from the shrinking bud 

Nursed in the greenhouse, to the gnarled oak 

Notching a thousand winters on its trunk. 

All are the children of thy love, oh sun ! 

And by thy smile sustain'd. 

Unresting orb ! 
Pursuest thou, mid the labyrinth of suns, 
Some pathway of thine own 1 Say, dost thou sweep. 
With all thy marshall'd planets in thy train. 
In grand procession on, through boundless space, 
Age after age, towards some mysterious point 
Mark'd by His finger, who doth write thy date, 
Thy " mene— mene — tekel," on the walls 
D2 



42 THE SUN. 

Of the blue vault that spans our universe ? 

— But Thou, who rul'st the sun, the astonish'd soul 

Shrinks as it takes Thy name. Almost it fears 

To be forgotten, mid the myriad worlds 

Which thou hast made. 

And yet the sickliest leaf 
That drinks thy dew reproves our unbelief. 
The frail field-lily, which no florist's eye 
Regards, doth win a glorious garniture, 
To kings denied. So, while to dust we bow, 
Needy and poor, oh ! bid us learn the lore 
Graved on the humblest lily's leaf, as deep 
As on you disk of fire^ — to trust in Thee, 



THE EARLY BLUE-BIRD. 



Blue-bird ! on yon leafless tree, 
Dost thou carol thus to me, 
« Spring is coming ! Spring is here ?" 
Say'st thou so, my birdie dear ? 
What is that, in misty shroud, 
Steahng from the darkened cloud ? 
Lo ! the snow-flakes' gathering mound 
Settles o'er the whiten'd ground. 
Yet thou singest, blithe and clear, 
« Spring is coming ! Spring is here !" 

Strik'st thou not too bold a strain? 
Winds are piping o'er the plain ; 
Clouds are sweeping o'er the sky 
With a black and threatening eye ; 
Urchins, by the frozen rill. 
Wrap their mantles closer still ; 
Yon poor man, with doublet old. 
Doth he shiver at the cold ? 
Hath he not a nose of blue ? 
Tell me, birdling, tell me true. 

Spring's a maid of mirth and glee, 
Rosy wreaths, and revelry : 
Hast thou woo'd some winged love 
To a nest in verdant grove ? 



44 THE EARLY BLUE-BIRD. 

Sung to her of greenwood bower, 
Sunny skies that never lower ? 
Lured her with thy promise fair 
Of a lot that knows no care ? 
Prythee, bird, in coat of blue. 
Though a lover, tell her true. 

Ask her if, when storms are long, 
She can sing a cheerfbl song ? 
When the rude winds rock the tree, 
If she'll closer cling to thee ? 
Then the blasts that sweep the sky, 
Unappall'd shall pass thee by ; 
Though thy curtained chamber show 
Siftings of untimely snow, 
Warm and glad thy heart shall be, 
Love shall make it Spring for thee. 



THE ANCIENT MONUMENT. 



There's a lion under thy feet, Sir Knight, 
And over thy head an escutcheon bright, 
And group'd around, with mournful mien, 
Kneeling kindred and friends are seen : 
From some, old Time hath cloven the head, 
Or the arm of marble away hath shred. 
But thou, in thy perfect state art there. 
With cuirass buckled, and forehead bare. 
And pale hands lifted and clasp'd in prayer. 

Where were the fields of thy proud career ? 
What were the deeds of thy glittering spear ? 
With thy good war-steed and thy helmed head, 
Didst thou trample on heaps of the quivering dead? 
Was thy banner on Syrian plains display'd ? 
Did it flame in the van of the red crusade ? 
Didst thou quaff thy cup of foaming wine, 
And boldly lead the embattled line 
To the leaguer'd gates of Palestine ? 

What was the price of thy warrior fame ? 
What was the cost of thy mighty name ? 
Did innocent blood profusely spilt 
Tinge thy coat of mail with the hue of guilt ? 
Stern wert thou to thy vassal train ? 
Dead to the moaning of want and pain ? 



46 THE ANCIENT MONUMENT. 

Lo ! the dust of the peasant is sleeping free 
'Neath the holy shade of the church-yard tree : 
Baron bold ! is it well with thee ? 

I see on the scroll by thy couch of sleep, 
The name of the Saviour engraven deep : 
Was that thy chart when the sunbeam smiled ? 
Was that thine anchor when storms were wild ? 
When the shaft of the Spoiler had pierced thy heart. 
Did it win the grief from that poison-dart ? 
Then, till the dawn of the day of doom, 
Till the trump of the angel shall break the gloom, 
Rest in the peace of the Christian's tomb. 



WINTER'S FETE. 



I WOKE, and every lordling of the grove 
Was clad in diamonds, and the lowliest shrub 
Did wear its crest of brilliants gallantly. 
The swelling hillocks, with their woven vines, 
T far-seen forests, and the broken hedge, 
Yea, every thicket gleam'd in bright array, 
As for some gorgeous fete of fairy-land. 

— Ho ! jewel-keeper of the hoary North, 

Whence hast thou all these treasures ? Why, the mines 

Of rich Golconda, since the world was young. 

Would fail to furnish such a glorious show. 

The queen, who to her coronation comes, 

With half a realm's exchequer on her head, 

Dazzle th the shouting crowd. But all the queens 

Who since old Egypt's buried dynasty 

Have here and there, amid the mists of time, 

Lifted their tiny sceptres — all the throng 

Of peeresses, who at some birth-night shine, 

Might boast no moiety of the gems thy hand 

So lavishly hath strewn o'er this old tree, 

Fast by my window. 

Every noteless thorn. 
Even the coarse sumach and the bramble bush, 
Do sport their diadems, as if, forsooth, 
Our plain republic in a single night 
Put forth such growth of aristocracy 
That no plebeian in the land was left 



48 • winter's fete. 

Uncoroneted. Broider'd frost-work wraps 

Yon stunted pear-tree, whose ne'er ripen'd fruit, 

Acid and bitter, every truant-boy 

Blamed with set teeth. Lo ! while I speak, its crown 

Kindleth in bossy crimson, and a stream 

Of Tyrian purple, blent with emerald spark, 

Floats round its rugged arms ; while here and there 

Gleams out a living sapphire, mid a knot 

Of trembling rubies, whose exquisite ray 

O'erpowers the astonish'd sight. 

One arctic queen, 
For one ice-palace, rear'd with fearful toil. 
And soon dissolving, scrupled not to pay 
Her vassal's life ; and emperors of old 
Have drain'd their coffers for the people's gaze, 
Though but a single amphitheatre 
Compress'd the crowd. But thou, whose potent wand 
Call'd forth such grand enchantment, swift as thought, 
And silent as a vision, and canst spread 
Its wondrous beauty to each gazing eye, 
Nor be the poorer, thou art scorn'd and bann'd 
Mid all thy beauty. Summer scantly sheds 
A few brief dew-drops for the sun to dry, 
And wins loud praise from every piping swain 
For the proud f(§te. 

Yet, certes, in these days. 
When wealth is so esteem'd that he who boasts 
The longest purse is sure the wisest man. 
Winter, who thus affords to sprinkle gems. 
Mile after mile, on all the landscape round. 
And decks his new-made peers in richer robes 
Than monarch ever gave, deserves more thanks 



49 



Than to be call'd rude churl and miser old. 
— I tell thee he's a friend, and Love, who sits 
So quiet in the corner, whispering long 
In beauty's ear, by the bright evening fire, 
Shall join my verdict. Yes, the King of Storms, 
So long decried, hath revenue more rich 
Than sparkling diamonds. 

Look within thy heart, 
When the poor shiver in their snow-wreath'd cell, 
Or the sad orphan mourns, and if thou find 
An answering pity, and a fervent deed 
Done in Christ's name, doubt not to be an heir 
Of that true wealth, which Winter hoardeth up 
To buy the soul a mansion with the blest. 
E 



NATIVE SCENERY. 



Sweetly wild ! sweetly wild ! 
Were the scenes that charm'd me when a child. 
Rocks, gray rocks, with their tracery dark, 
Leaping rills, like the diamond spark, 
Torrent voices, thundering by, 
When the pride of the vernal floods swell'd high ; 
And quiet roofs, like the hanging nest, 
Mid cliffs by the feathery foliage dress'd. 

— Beyond, in these woods, did the wild rose grow, 
And the lily gleam white, where the lakelets flow. 
And the trailing arbutus shroud its grace, 
Till fragrance bewrayed its hiding-place, 
And the woodbine hold to the dews its cup, 
And the vine, with its clustering grapes, go up, 
Up to the crest of the tallest trees ; 
And so, mid the humming-birds and bees. 
On a seat of turf, embroidered fair 
With the violet blue and the columbine rare, 
It was sweet to sit, till the sun laid down, 
At the gate of the west, his golden crown : 
Sweetly wild ! sweetly wild ! 
Were the scenes that charm'd me when a child. 



DEATH OF AN INFANT IN ITS MOTHER'S 
ARMS. 



" He slumbers long, young mother, 

Upon thy gentle breast ; 
Thou'rt weary now with watching. 

Sweet mother, go to rest : 
There seems no pain to stir him, 

His peril sure is past, 
For see, his soft hand clasp'd in thine, 

He heeds nor storm nor blast. 

Why dost thou gaze so wildly ? 

Why strain thy strong embrace ? 
Unlock thy fearful clasping, 

And let me see his face :" 
So down that mother laid him. 

In her agony of care. 
And kiss'd the cold and marble brow 

With calm and fix'd despair. 

" Oh weep ! there's holy healing 

In every gushing tear, 
Nor question thus that beauteous clay, 

The angel is not here ; 



52 



No shut of rose at eventide 

Was with a peace so deep, 
As o'er thy darHng's closing eye 

Stole his last dovelike sleep." 

Where best he loved to hide him, 

In that dear sheltering spot, 
Just there his tender spirit pass'd — 

Pass'd, and she knew it not : 
His fond lip never trembled, 

Nor sigh'd the parting breath. 
When strangely for his nectar'd draught 

He drank the cup of death. 

Full was thy lot of blessing, 

To charm his cradle-hours, 
To touch his sparkling fount of thought. 

And breathe his breath of flowers. 
And take thy daily lesson 

From the smile that beam'd so free, 
Of what in holier, brighter realms, 

The pure in heart must be. 

No more thy twilight musing 

May with his image shine, 
When in that lonely hour of love 

He laid his cheek to thine ; 
So still and so confiding 

That cherish'd babe would be, 
So like a sinless guest from heaven, 

And yet a part of thee. 



But now his blessed portion 

Is o*er the cloud to soar, 
And spread a never-wearied wing 

Where sorrows are no more ; 
With cherubim and seraphim 

To tread the ethereal plain, 
High honour hath it been to thee 

To swell that glorious train. 
E 2 



BREAD IN THE WILDERNESS. 



A VOICE amid the desert. 

Not of him 
Who, in rough garments clad, and locust-fed, 
Cried to the sinful multitude, and claim'd 
Fruits of repentance, with the lifted scourge 
Of terror and reproof. A milder guide. 
With gentler tones, doth teach the listening throng. 
Benignant pity moved him as he saw 
The shepherdless and poor. He knew to touch 
The springs of every nature. The high lore 
Of Heaven he humbled to the simplest child, 
And in the guise of parable allured 
The sluggish mind to follow truth and live. 

They whom the thunders of the law had stunn'd 
Woke to the Gospel's melody with tears ; 
And the glad Jewish mother held her babe 
High in her arms, that its young eye might greet 
Jesus of Nazareth. 

It was so still, 
Though thousands cluster'd there, that not a sound 
Brake the strong spell of eloquence which held 
The wilderness in chains, save now and then. 
As the gale freshen'd, came the murmur'd speech 
Of distant billows, chafing with the shores 
Of the Tiberian Sea. 



BREAD IN THE WILDERNESS. 55 

Day wore apace, 
Noon hasted, and the lengthening shadows brought 
The unexpected eve. They linger'd still, 
Eyes fix*d, and lips apart ; the very breath 
Constrain'd, lest some escaping sigh might break 
The tide of knowledge, sweeping o'er their souls 
Like a strange, raptured dream. They heeded not 
The spent sun, closing at the curtain'd west 
His burning journey. What was time to them, 
Who heard entranced the eternal Word of Life ? 

But the weak flesh grew weary. Hunger came, 
Sharpening each feature, and to faintness drain'd 
Life's vigorous fount. The holy Saviour felt 
Compassion for them. His disciples press, 
Care-stricken, to his side : " Where shall we find 
Bread in this desert ?" 

Then, with lifted eye, 
He bless'd, and brake, the slender store of food. 
And fed the famish'd thousands. Wondering awe 
With renovated strength inspired their souls. 
As, gazing on the miracle, they mark'd 
The gather'd fragments of their feast, and heard 
Such heavenly words as lip of mortal man 
Had never utter'd. 

Thou, whose pitying heart 
Yearn'd o'er the countless miseries of those 
Whom thou didst die to save, touch thou our souls 
With the same spirit of untiring love. 
Divine Redeemer ! may our fellow-man, 
Howe'er by rank or circumstance disjoin'd, 
Be as a brother in his hour of need. 



MIGRATION OF BIRDS. 



November came on, with an eye severe, 

And his stormy language was hoarse to hear ; 

And the gUttering garland of brown and red, 

Which he wreathed for a while round the forest's head, 

With a sudden anger he rent away, 

And all was cheerless, and bare, and gray. 

Then the houseless grasshopper told his woes. 

And the humming-bird sent forth a wail for the rose. 

And the spider, that weaver of cunning so deep, 

RoU'd himself up in a ball to sleep ; 

And the cricket his merry horn laid by 

On the shelf, with the pipe of the dragon-fly. 

Soon the birds were heard, at the morning prime, 

Consulting of flight to a warmer clime. 

" Let us go ! let us go !" said the bright-wing'd jay ; 

And his gay spouse sang from a rocking spray, 

" I am tired to death of this hum-drum tree, 

I'll go, if 'tis only the world to see." 

" Will you go ?" asked the robin, <' my only love ?" 
And a tender strain from the leafless grove 
Responded, " Wherever your lot is CEist, 
Mid summer skies or the northern blast, 
I am still at your side your heart to cheer, 
Though dear is our nest in the thicket here." 



MIGRATION OF BIRDS, 67 

" I am ready to go," cried the querulous wren, 

" From the hateful homes of these northern men ; 

My throat is sore, and my feet are blue ; 

I fear I have caught the consumption too." 

And the oriole told, with a flashing eye. 

How his plumage was spoil'd by this frosty sky* 

Then up went the thrush with a trumpet call, 
And the martins came forth from their box on the wall, 
And the owlets peep'd out from their secret bower. 
And the swallows convened on the old church-tower, 
And the council of blackbirds was long and loud, 
Chattering and flying from tree to cloud. 

" The dahlia is dead on her throne," said they ; 
" And we saw the butterfly cold as clay ; 
Not a berry is found on the russet plains. 
Not a kernel of ripen'd maize remains ; 
Every worm is hid — shall we longer stay 
To be wasted with famine ? Away ! Away !'* 

But what a strange clamour on elm and oak, 

From a bevy of brown-coated mocking-birds' broke ; 

The theme of each separate speaker they told 

In a shrill report, with such mimicry bold, 

That the eloquent orators started to hear 

Their own true echo, so wild and clear. 

Then tribe after tribe, with its leader fair, 
Swept off*, through the fathomless depths of air.. 
Who marketh their course to the tropics bright ? 
Who nerveth their wing for its weary flight ? 



58 MIGRATION OF BIRDS. 

Who guideth that caravan's trackless way 
By the star at night and the cloud by day ? 

Some spread o'er the waters a daring wing, 

In the isles of the southern sea to sing, 

Or where the minaret, towering high, 

Pierces the blue of the Moslem sky. 

Or amid the harem's haunts of fear 

Their lodges to build and their nurslings rear. 

The Indian fig, with its arching screen, 
Welcomes them in to its vistas green, 
And the breathing buds of the spicy tree 
Thrill at the burst of their melody, 
And the bulbul starts, mid his carol clear. 
Such a rushing of stranger-wings to hear. 

O wild-wood wanderers ! how far away 
From your rural homes in our vales ye stray. 
But when they are waked by the touch of Spring, 
Shall we see you again with your glancing wing ? 
Your nests mid our household trees to raise, 
And stir our hearts in our Maker's praise ? 



« SHOW US THE FATHER." 

John, iv„ 8. 



Have ye not seen Him, when through parted snows 
Wake the first kindlings of the vernal green 1 

When 'neath its modest veil the arbutus blows, 
And the pure snow-drop bursts its folded screen? 

When the wild rose, that asks no florist's care, 

Unfoldeth its rich leaves, have ye not seen Him there ? 

Have ye not seen Him, when the infant's eye, 

Through its bright sapphire-windows shows the mind? 

When, in the trembling of the tear or sigh, 

Floats forth that essence, trembHng and refined? 

Saw ye not Him, the author of our trust, 

Who breathed the breath of life into a frame of dust ? 

Have ye not heard Him, when the tuneful rill 

Casts off* its icy chains and leaps away ? 
In thunders echoing loud from hill to hill ? 

In songs of birds, at break of summer's day ? 
Or in the ocean's everlasting roar. 
Battling the old gray rocks that sternly guard his shore ? 

Amid the stillness of the Sabbath morn, 

When vexing cares in tranquil slumber rest, 

When in the heart the holy thought is born. 

And Heaven's high impulse warms the waiting breast, 



60 SHOW us THE FATHER. 

Have ye noi felt Him, while your kindling prayer 
Swelled out in tones of praise, announcing God was there ? 

Show us the Father ! If ye fail to trace 
His chariot where the stars majestic roll, 

His pencil mid earth's loveliness and grace. 
His presence in the sabbath of the soul, 

How can you see Him till the day of dread, 

When to assembled worlds the book of doom is read ? 



THE RAINY DAY. 



When the soft summer-shower, whose herald-drops 

Stirr'd the broad vine-leaves to an answering joy, 

Swells to protracted rain, soothing the mind 

With sense of leisure, mother, haste to call 

Thy little flock around thee. Let them hail 

The rainy day, as one when tender love 

Brincrs forth for them its richest stores of thought. 

Think'st thou the needle's thrift or housewife's lore 

Yields richer payment 1 Mother ! thou mayst stamp 

Such trace upon the waxen mind as life. 

With all its swelling floods, shall ne'er blot out. 

So take thy bright-eyed nursling on thy knee, 

And tell him of the God who rules the cloud 

And calms the tempest, and the glorious sun 

Brings forth rejoicing from the rosy east 

To gild the morn. 

Unlock thy treasured hoards 

Of hallow'd lore : how little Samuel heard 

At midnight, 'neath the temple's solemn arch, 

Jehovah's voice, and hasted to obey : 

How young Josiah turned to Israel's God 

Ere yet eight summers ripen'd on his brow : 

And how the sick child to his father cried, 

« My head ! my head !" then, in his mother's arms. 

Grew pale and died : and how the prophet's prayer 

Did pluck him from the jaws of death again. 

F 



62 THE RAINY DAY. 

Tell, too, thy little daughter, while she sits 
Heedful beside thee, how the shepherds heard 
The harps of angels while they watch'd their sheep : 
And how the infant Saviour found no bed 
Save a straw manger mid the horned train : 
And how he raised the ruler's daughter up, 
When on her dead brow lay the weeper's tear : 
How at the tomb of Lazarus he mourn'd 
With the sad sisters : and, when the wild sea, 
And wilder tempest raged, stretch'd out his hand 
And saved the faint disciple on the wave, 
Who pray'd to him. 

Then, when the moisten'd eye 
Reveals the softening soul, cast in thy seed, 
And Heaven and holy angels water it ! 
So shall the spirit of the summer-storm 
Gleam as a rainbow, when thy soul goes up, 
With its dread company of deeds and thoughts, 
To bide the audit of the day of doom. 



AFRAID TO DIE. 



•* And deliver them who, through fear of death, were all their lifetime 
subject to bondage."— Hebrews, ii., 15. 

Afraid to die ! — afraid to sleep 

In earth, our mother's tranquil breast, 

Where snares and troubles vex no more, 
And all the weary are at rest ? 

Afraid to die ! — afraid to take 

His hand who trod the shadowy vale, 

And leads us on to pastures green, 
And living streams that never fail ? 

Afraid to die ! — afraid to bear 

The pang that but a moment tries. 
And, o'er the sway of pain and care, 

Ascend to mansions in the skies ? 

Afraid to die ! — afraid to leave 

The cradle and the worthless toy. 
And take our ripen'd being's crown. 

And soar to consummated joy ? 

Afraid to die ! — afraid to trust 

His promise who shall burst the tomb, 

And raise the renovated dust 

More glorious from its transient gloom ? 



64 AFRAID TO DIE. 

Afraid to die I — afraid to meet 

The guardian bands who watchful wait, 

And spread their radiant pinions wide 
To bear us through salvation's gate ? 

Afraid to die ! — prefer to be 

A stranger in these courts below, 

A pilgrim, when the lights of 'home 

Bright through our Father's windows glow ? 

Afraid to die ! — ah ! what avails, 
Whether by sickness, storm, or fire ; 

The ethereal essence finds its place, 
And rises to the Eternal Sire ? 

Afraid to die ? — O grant us grace, 

Thou who didst dare the spoiler's strife, 

Calmly to meet his cold embrace. 
And soar to everlasting life. 



THE BEREAVED. 



Not my will, but thine. 



I HAD a little blossom, its nursing-root was dead, 
And in my breast I hid it when its angel mother fled, 
But at every blast I shudder'd, and I trembled day and night, 
Lest some unseen destroyer my only bud should blight. 

Two years of anxious care, yet of high and sacred joy. 
Brought forth, in ruddy health, my lovely, blooming boy, 
With the curls around his head, and the lustre in his eye, 
And the music on his lip, like a song-bird of the sky. 

In wakeful hours I mused, and I wish'd, while others sleep, 
That, for his precious sake, my wealth was broad and deep ; 
So I forced my lingering mind for a little while to go 
And gather for my son, where the gold and silver grow. 

The old nurse loved my blooming boy, and round her neck 

he clung 
With his clasping, ivory arms, and his busy, flattering 

tongue ; 
She promised to be faithful, with the tear upon her cheek, 
And I tore myself away as he lay in slumbers meek. 

Both night and day I toil'd, while my heart was with the 

child. 
And on my every labour propitious Fortune smiled ; 

F 2 



i 



66 THE BEREAVED. 

Then I homeward set my face, when the spnng-flowers 
'gan to blow — 

for an eagle's pinion ! the flying car, how slow. 

1 brought the baubles that he loved, the tiny gilded drum, 
The crimson-banner'd host, that to mimic battle come. 
The Argonautic shells, that sail in pearly fleet. 

And, in its pretty cage, the bright-winged paroquet. 

My trees ! my roof ! I knew them well, though midnight's 

veil was drear. 
The pale nurse-lamp was flickering within the nursery dear, 
But a muffled watcher started thence at my impatient tread, 
And there my darling lay, on his white mattress-bed. 

How still ! My God, is there no voice ? And has it come 

to this ! 
The white lip quivereth not to my impassion'd kiss ! 
'Tis a coldness like the grave ! My idol ! can it be ? 
O Father, from thy throne above, in mercy look on me. 

They told me how the fever raged, and, in his broken dream, 
How he call'd upon the absent, with shrill and frantic scream. 
How he set his teeth on cup and spoon, with hated medi- 
cine fraught, 
But at his father's treasured name, he took the bitterest 
draught. 

God gave me strength to make his bed where his young 

mother slept. 
The fragrant vines she used to train around her feet had 

crept, 



THE BEREAVED. 67 

But I cut their roots away, that the bud she loved the best 
Might spread its wither'd petals upon her pulseless breast. 

And now I wander wide beneath a foreign sky, 

In the stranger's home I lodge, for no household hearth 

have I, 
There are gray hairs on my temples, despite my early 

years. 
But I find there's still a comfort in drying others' tears. 

Why should I cloud my brow ? why yield to dark despair ? 
All — all men are my brethren, and this fruitful earth is fair, 
For I know, when heaven hath wounded and probed the 

bleeding breast, 
Its richest, healing balm is, in making others bless'd. 

The poor man he doth thank me, and the orphan's grateful 

prayer 
Breathes sweetly o'er my lonely soul, and sooths away 

its care ; 
In the sick peasant's cabin the gift he needs I lay. 
And, ere he knows the giver, I vanish far away. 

I have a sacred joy, close lock'd from mortal eye, 
My loved ones come to visit me when lost in dreams I lie ; 
They speak such words to charm me as only angels say, 
And the beauty of their robes of light gleams round me 
through the day. 

God is their keeper, and their friend, their bliss no tongue 

can tell. 
And more I love His holy name that in His home they dwell ; 



68 



THE BEREAVED. 



O may He grant me grace divine, while on these shores of 

time, 
To learn the dialect they speak in yon celestial clime. 

Beside his glorious throne they rest, on seraph-harps they 

play; 
Why should I wish them back again in these cold tents of 

clay? 
A stricken, not a mournful man, I sigh, but not repine, 
For my heart is in that land of love, with those I hope to 

join. 



THE POET'S BOOKS. 



A Poet should be conversant with God 
In all his works. For, from the untrodden cliff 
Where fiery Andes mocks the driven cloud, 
To the obscurest moss which arctic storms 
Deny an efflorescence, from the roar 
Of the wild rainbow-cinctured cataract, 
To the slight ripple of the loneliest lake, 
All speak of Him. 

Choose not the ponderous tomes 
Where Science wastes away the oil of life. 
And early hoary, seeks the voiceless tomb, 
Its lessons still unlearn'd ; nor lose thyself 
In the entangling lore of many lands. 
Until thy mother tongue seem strange to thee. 
Much knowledge is much toil, and hath no end. 
But come thou forth, amid the breeze-swept trees, 
And learn their language. Ask the peaceful vales. 
Where roam the herds, or where the reaper plies 
His busy sickle — ask the solemn sea, 
With all its foaming wilderness of waves, 
To spread its mighty volume out for thee, 
And search thou there, on every fearful page, 
Jehovah's name. 

Question the rough-leafed herb, 
That lines the simpler's scrip, nor scorn to heed 
Such answer as its healing essence yields. 



70 THE poet's books. 

Talk with the firefly when it gilds the eve, 
And catch the murmur of the waving boughs, 
Where hides the slumbering nest. 

List, when old night, 
That dark-robed queen, disbands the muffled stars, 
And boldly writeth on the vaulted sky 
Its Maker's awful name. When weary day, 
Casting her deeds into gray twilight's lap, 
Doth sleep, forgetful of the Judge, be there, 
A student of its annal, if perchance 
Its varying burden, fitted to thy harp, 
May yield true wisdom. 

Take thy choicest books 
From Nature's library, and be thy creed 
Such soul-entrancing poesy as makes 
Virtue more lovely, and inspires the hymn 
That seraphs set to music. 



OAK IN AUTUMN. 



Old oak ! old oak ! the chosen one, 

Round which my poet's mesh I twine, 
When rosy wakes the joyous sun, 

Or, wearied, sinks at day's decHne, 
I see the frost-king here and there. 

Claim some brown leaflet for his own, 
Or point in cold derision where 

He soon shall rear the usurper's throne. 

Too soon ! too soon ! in crimson bright, 

Vain mockery of thy wo, he'll flout, 
And proudly climb thy topmost height. 

To hang his flaunting signal out ; 
While thou, as round thine honours fall, 

Shalt stand with seam'd and naked bark. 
Like banner-staflT, so lone and tall. 

His ruthless victory tcj mark. 

I, too, old friend, when thou art gone, 

Must pensive to my casement go, 
Or, like the shuddering Druid, moan 

The withering of his mistletoe ; 
But when young Spring, with matin clear, 

Awakes the bird, the stream, the tree, 
Fain would I at her call appear, 

And hang my slender wreath on thee. 



LOVE NOT THE WORLD. 



To gain the friendship of the world, 

How vain the ceaseless strife ; 
We sow the sand, we grasp the wind, 

We waste the life of life. 

Perchance some giddy height we gain, 

Some gilded treasure show. 
The footing fails, the shadow 'scapes, 

We sink in deeper wo. 

Yet, baffled, still the toil we try, 

The eager chase renew. 
Even though the portals of the grave 

Yawn on our startled view. 

But Thou, whose pitying mercy's tide 

Is like the unfathom'd sea. 
Thy love was waiting for our souls, 

That would not turn to Thee ; 

Thy hand was stretch'd. Thy voice was heard. 

Thy fold was open wide. 
Ah ! who the straying sheep can save 

That shuns the Eternal Guide ? 



VISIT TO THE BIRTHPLACE. 



Bright summer's flush was on thee, clime beloved, 
When last I trod thy vales. Now, all around, 
Autumn her rainbow energy of tint 
Poureth o'er copse and forest, beautiful, 
Yet speaking of decay. The aspiring pine 
Wears his undying green ; but the strong oak. 
Like smitten giant, casts his honours down, 
Strewing brown earth with emerald and gold. 
Yon lofty elms, the glory of our land, 
So lately drooping 'neath their weight of leaves, 
With proud, yet graceful elegance, to earth. 
Stand half in nakedness, and half in show 
Of gaudy colours. Hath some secret shaft 
Wounded the maple's breast, that thus it bends 
Like bleeding warrior, tinging all its robes 
With crimson 1 while in pity by its side, 
The pallid poplar, turning to the eye 
Its silver lining, moans at every breeze. 

I roved in sadness through those alter'd scenes. 
The voice of man was painful. On the ear 
Idly and vague it fell, for tearful thought 
Wrought inward, mid the faded imagery 
Of early days. 

See there, yon low-brow'd cot, 
Whose threshold oft my childish foot has cross'd 
G 



74 VISIT TO THE BIRTHPLACE. 

So merrily, whose hearth-stone shone so bright 
At eve, where with her skilful needle wrought 
The industrious matron, while our younger group 
Beguiled with fruit, and nuts, and storied page 
The winter's stormy hour : where is she now 1 
Who coldly answers ? dead ! 

Fast by its side 
A dearer mansion stands, where my young eyes 
First openM on the light. That garden's bound, 
Where erst I roam'd delighted, deeming earth, 
With all its wealth, had naught so beautiful 
As its trim hedge of roses, and the ranks 
Of daffodils, with snowdrops at their feet. 
How small and changed it seems ! The velvet turf, 
With its cool arbour, where I linger'd long 
Conning my little lesson, or, perchance. 
Eying the slowly-ripening peach, that lean'd 
Its downy cheek against the latticed wall, 
Or holding converse with the violet-buds, 
That were to me as sisters, giving back 
Sweet thoughts : say, is it not less green than when 
My childhood wander'd there ? 

Lo ! by rude rocks 
O'ercanopied, the dome where science taught 
Her infant rudiments. First day of school ! 
I well remember thee, just on the verge 
Of my fourth summer. Every face around 
How wonderful and new ! The months moved on 
Majestically slow. Awe-struck, I mark'd 
The solemn schooldame in her chair of state, 
Much fearing lest her all-observant eye 
Might note me wandering from my patchwork task 



VISIT TO THE BIRTHPLACE. 

Or spelling lesson. Yet that frigid realm 
Some sunbeams boasted, whose delicious warmth 
Lent nutriment to young ambition's germes. 
"Head of the class !" what music in that sound, 
Link'd to my name ; and then, the crowning joy. 
Homeward to bear, on shoulder neatly pinn'd, 
The bow of crimson satin, rich reward 
Of well-deserving, not too lightly won 
Or worn too meekly. Still ye need not scorn 
Our humble training, ye of modern times. 
Wiser and more accomplish'd. Learning's field, 
Indeed, was circumscribed, but its few plants 
Had such close pruning and strict discipline 
As giveth healthful root and hardy stalk, 
Perchance, enduring fruit. 

Beneath yon roof — 
Our own no more — beneath my planted trees, 
Where unfamiliar faces now appear. 
She dwelt, whose hallow'd welcome was so dear ; 
O Mother, Mother ! all thy priceless love 
Is fresh before me, as of yesterday. 
Thy pleasant smile, the beauty of thy brow, 
Thine idol fondness for thine only one. 
The untold tenderness with which thy heart 
Embraced my firstborn infant, when my joys, 
Swelling to their full climax, bore it on. 
With its young look of wonder, to thy home, 
A stranger visitant. Fade, visions, fade! 
Ye make her vacant place too visible. 
Ye stir the sources of the bitter tear. 
When I would think of her eternal gain. 
And praise my God for her. 



76 VISIT TO THE BIRTHPLACE. 

And now farewell, 
Dear native spot ! with fairest landscapes deck'd, 
Of old romantic cliff, and crystal rill, 
And verdant soil, enrich 'd with proudest wealth, 
Warm hearts and true. 

Yet deem not I shall wear 
The mourner's weeds for thee. Another home 
Hath joys and duties. And, where'er my path 
On earth shall lead, I'll keep a nesting bough 
For hope, the song-bird, and, with cheerful step, 
Hold on my pilgrimage, remembering where 
Flowers have no autumn-languor, Eden's gate 
No flaming sword, to guard the tree of life. 



FUNERAL OF A NEIGHBOUR. 



Ah ! can that funeral knell be thine, 

Thou, at whose image kind 
So many long-remember'd scenes 

Come rushing o'er my mind ? 
Thy rural home behind the trees. 

Thy bowers with roses dress'd. 
And the bright eye and beaming smile, 

That cheer'd each entering guest. 

There, when our children, hand in hand. 

Pursued their earnest play. 
It drew our hearts more closely still. 

To see their own so gay. 
And hear their merry laughter ring 

Around the evening hearth. 
While the loud threat of winter's storm 

Broke not their hour of mirth. 

'Tis strange that I should seek in vain 

That mansion, once so fair, 
And find the spot where erst it stood 

All desolate and bare ; 
Its smooth green bank, on which so thick 

The dappled daisies grew — 
How passing strange, that from its place 

Even that has vanish'd too. 
G2 



78 FUNERAL OF A NEIGHBOrR. 

But thou, whatever change or cloud 

Deform'd this lower sky, 
Hadst still a fountain in thy heart 

Whose streams were never dry ; 
A fountain of perennial hope, 

That never ceased to flow, 
And give its sky-fed crystals forth 

To every child of wo. 

Thy frequent visits to my couch, 

If sickness paled my cheek. 
And all thy sympathetic love. 

Which language cannot speak, 
How strong those recollections rise 

To wake the grateful tear. 
For deeds like these more precious grow 

With every waning year. 

I cannot think that bitter grief 

Would please thy happy soul, 
Raised as thou art to that bless'd world 

Where tempests never roll ; 
But may thy dearest and thy best. 

The children of thy care. 
Walk steadfast in thy chosen path, 

And joyful meet thee there. 



THE AGED BISHOP. 



A scene at the closing of a Convention in Virginia, by the venerable 
Bishop Moore. 

They cluster'd round, that listening throng, 

The parting hour drew nigh, 
And heightened feeling, deep and strong. 

Spoke forth from eye to eye ; 

For reverend in his hoary years, 

A white-robed prelate bent. 
And trembling pathos wing'd his words, 

As to the heart they went. 

With saintly love he urged the crowd 

Salvation's hope to gain. 
While, gathering o'er his furrow'd cheek. 

The tears fell down like rain ; 

He waved his hand, and music woke 

A warm and solemn strain. 
His favourite hymn swell'd high, and fiU'd 

The consecrated fane. 

Then from the hallow'd chancel forth, 

With faltering step, he sped, 
And fervent laid a father's hand 

On eveiy priestly head, 



80 THE AGED BISHOP. 

And breathed the blessing of his God. 

And, full of meekness, said, 
" Be faithful in your Master's work 

When your old bishop's dead. 

" For more than fifty years, my sons, 
A Saviour's love supreme 

Unto a sinful world, hath been 
My unexhausted theme ; 

" Now, see, the blossoms of the grave 
Are o'er my temples spread, 

Oh ! lead the seeking soul to Him 
When your old bishop's dead." 

Far waned the holy Sabbath-eve 
On toward the midnight hour. 

Before the spellbound throng retired 
To slumber's soothing power ; 

Yet many a sleeper, mid his dream, 

Beheld in snowy stole 
That patriarch-prelate's bending form, 

Whose accents stirr'd the soul. 

In smiles the summer morn arose, 
And many a grateful guest. 

Forth from those hospitable domes, 
With tender memories, press*d, 



THE AGED BISHOP. 81 

While o'er the broad and branching bay, 

Which like a heart doth pour 
A living tide, in countless streams, 

Through fair Virginia's shore, 

O'er Rappahannock's fringed breast, 

O'er rich Potomac's tide, 
Or where the bold, resistless James 

Rolls on, with monarch-pride, 

The boats that ask nor sail nor oar. 

With speed majestic glide. 
And many a thoughtful pastor leans 

In silence o'er their side, 

And, while he seems to scan the flood 

In silver 'neath him spread, 
Revolves the charge, " Be strong for God 

When your old lishop's dead," 



POWER OF THE ALMIGHTY. 



God of the chainless winds, that wildly wreck 
The moaning forest, and the ancient oak 
Rend like a sapling spray, and sweep the sand 
O'er the lost caravan, that trod, with pride 
Of tinkling bells, and camel's arching neck, 
The burning desert — a dense host at morn. 
At eve a bubble on the trackless waste — 
God of the winds ! canst thou not rule the heart, 
And gather back its passions when thou wilt, 
Bidding them " Peace ; le still T 

God of the waves. 
That toss and mock the mightiest argosy. 
As the wild zephyr frets the thistle-down, 
Until the sternest leader's heart doth melt 
Because of trouble — Thou who call'st them back 
From their rough challenge to the muffled sky. 
And bidd'st them harmless lave an infant's feet 
That seeketh silver shells — canst Thou not curb 
The tumult of the nations, the hot wrath 
Of warring kings, who, like the babe, must die ; 
Vaunting this day in armour, and the next, 
Unshrouded, slumbering on the battle-field ? 
God of the unfathom'd, unresisted deep ! 
We trust in Thee, and know in whom we trust. 

— God of the solemn stars, that tread so true 
The path by thee appointed, every one, 



POWER OF THE ALMIGHTY. 83 

From the slight asteroid to the vast orb 
That lists the watchword, or the music-march 
Of farthest planets round their monarch suns, 
Marshall'd in glorious ranks, so teach our souls, 
That when, unbodied from this lower world, 
Trembling, they launch, they may not lose the clew 
That guides from sun to sun, through boundless space, 
The stranger-atom to a home with Thee. 



HOME OF THE DUELLIST. 



The mother sat beside her fire, 
Well trimm'd it was and bright, 

While loudly moan'd the forest-pines 
Amid that wintry night. 

She heard them not, those wind-swept pines, 

For o'er a scroll she hung, 
That bore her husband's voice of love, 

As when that love was young. 

And thrice her son, beside her knee, 

Besought her favouring eye, 
And thrice her lisping daughter spoke, 

Before she made reply. 

" O, little daughter, many a kiss 

Lies in this treasured line ; 
And, boy, a father's blessed prayers, 

And counsels fond, are thine. 

" Thou hast his high and arching brow. 

Thou hast his eye of flame ; 
And be the purpose of thy soul. 

Thy sun-bright course, the same." 

And, as she drew them to her arms, 
Down her fair cheek would glide 



HOME OF THE DUELLIST. 85 

A gushing tear like diamond spark, 
A tear of love and pride. 

She took her baby from its rest, 

And laid it on her knee : 
" Thou ne'er hast seen thy sire," she said, 

" But he'll be proud of thee : 

" Yes, he'll be proud of thee, my dove, 

The lily of our line, 
I know what eye of blue he loves. 
And such an eye is thine." 

" Where is my father gone, mamma ? 

Why does he stay so long ?" 
" He's far away in Congress' Hall, 

Amid the noble throng : 

" He's in the lofty Congress' Hall, 

To swell the high debate, 
And help to frame those equal laws 

That make our land so great. 

" But ere the earliest violets bloom 

We in his arms shall be. 
So go to rest, my children dear, 

And pray for him and me." 

The snow-flakes rear'd their drifted mound 

O'er hill and valley deep. 
But nought amid that peaceful home 

Disturb'd the dews of sleep ; 
H 



86 HOME OF THE DUELLIST. 

For lightly, like an angel's dream, 
The trance of slumber fell. 

Where innocence and holy love 
Maintain'd their guardian spell. 

Another eve — another scroll. 

Wist ye what words it said ? 
Two words, two awful words it bore, 

The duel ! and the dead ! 

The duel ? and the dead ? How dim 
Was that young mother's eye. 

How fearful was her lengthen'd swoon. 
How wild her piercing cry. 

There's many a wife whose bosom's lord 

Is in his prime laid low. 
Ingulf 'd beneath the wat'ry main, 

Where bitter tempests blow ; 

Or crush'd amid the battle-field. 
Where slaughter'd thousands rest ; 

Yet know they of the speechless pang 
That rives her bleeding breast ? 

Who lies so powerless on her couch, 
Transfix'd by sorrow's sting ? 

Her infant in its nurse's arms, 
Like a forgotten thing. 

A dark-hair'd boy is at her side — 
He lifts his eagle-eye : 



HOME OF THE DUELLIST. 87 

" Mother ! they say my father's dead ; 
How did my father die ?" 

Again the spear- point in her breast ! 

Again that shriek of pain ! 
" Child ! thou hast riven thy mother's soul : '^ 

Speak not those words again." 

" Speak not those words again, my son !" 

What boots the fruitless care ? 
They're written wheresoe'er she turns, 

On ocean, earth, or air : 

They're sear'd upon her shrinking heart, 

That bursts beneath its doom : 
The duel ! and the dead ! they haunt 

The threshold of her tomb. 

Yes, through her brief and weary years 

That broken heart she bore. 
And on her desolated cheek 

The smile sat never more. 



THE PILGRIM. 



" I am not far from home, therefore I need not make much provision 
for the way." 

I HEAR the rising tempest moan, 
My failing limbs have weary grown ; 
The flowers are shut, the streams are dried. 
The arid sands spread drear and wide, 
The night dews fall, the winds are high, 
How far from home, O Lord, am 1 1 

I would not come with hoards of gold. 

With glittering gems or cumbrous mould. 

Nor dim my eyes with gather'd dust 

Of empty fame or earthly trust. 

But hourly ask, as lone I roam, 

How far from home ? how far from home ? 

Not far ! not far ! the way is dark. 

Fair hope hath quench'd her glow-worm spark ; 

The trees are dead beneath whose shade 

My youth reclined, my childhood play'd ; 

Red lightning streaks the troubled sky, 

How far from home, my God, am I? 

Oh, find me in that home a place 
Beneath the footstool of thy grace ; 



THE PILGRIM. 89 

Though sometimes mid the husks I fed, 
And turnM me from the children's bread, 
Still bid thine angel -harps resound, 
The dead doth live, the lost is found. 

Reach forth thy hand with pitying care, 
And guide me through the latest snare ; 
Methinks, even now, in bursting beams 
The radiance from thy casement streams ; 
No more I shed the pilgrim tear ; 
I hear thy voice, my home is near. 
H2 



THOUGHTS AMONG THE TREES. 



" The retiring of the mind into itself is the state most susceptible of di- 
vine impressions." — Lord Bacon. 

How beautiful you are, green trees ! green trees ! 
How nobly beautiful ! Fain would I rest 
'Neath the broad shadow of your mantling arms, 
And lose the world's unquiet imagery 
In the soft mist of dreams. Your curtaining veil 
Shuts out the revelry and toil, that chafe 
The city's denizens. Man wars with man. 
And brethren forage on each other's hearts, 
Throwing their life-blood in that crucible 
Which brings forth gold. 

Unceasingly we strive. 
And gaze at gauds, and cling to wind-swept reeds, 
Then darkly sink, and die. 

But here ye stand. 
Your moss-grown roots by hidden moisture fed, 
And on your towering heads the dews that fall 
From God's right hand. I love your sacred lore, 
And to the silence you have learn'd of Him 
Bow down my spirit. Not a whispering leaf 
Uplifts itself, to mar the holy pause 
Of meditation. 

Doth not wisdom dwell 
With silence and with nature ? From the throng 



THOUGHTS AMONG THE TREES. 9] 

Of fierce communings or of feverish joys, 
So the sweet mother of the Lord of life 
Turn'd to the manger and its lowly train, 
And, mid their quiet ruminations, found 
Refuge and room. 

Methinks an angel's wing 
Floats o'er your arch of verdure, glorious trees ! 
Luring the soul above. O, ere we part. 
For soon I leave your blessed company, 
And seek the dusky paths of life again. 
Give me some gift, some token of your love. 
One holy thought, in heavenly silence born. 
That I may nurse it till we meet again. 



FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 



How beautiful it stands, 

Behind its elm-tree's screen, 
With simple attic cornice crown'd, 

All graceful and serene ; 
Most sweet, yet sad, it is 

Upon yon scene to gaze, 
And list its inborn melody. 

The voice of other days ; ' 

For there, as many a year 

Its varied chart unroll'd, 
I hid me in those quiet shades, 

And caird the joys of old ; 
I call'd them, and they came 

When vernal buds appear'd, 
Or where the vine-clad summer bower 

Its temple-roof uprear'd, 

Or where the o'erarching grove 

Spread forth its copses green, 
While eye-bright and asclepias rear'd 

Their untrain'd stalks between, 
And the squirrel from the boughs 

His broken nuts let fall. 
And the merry, merry little birds 

Sang at his festival. 



FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 93 

Yon old forsaken nests 

Returning spring shall cheer, 
And thence the unfledged robin breathe 

His greeting wild and clear ; 
And from yon clustering vine, 

That wreathes the casement round, 
The humming-birds' unresting wing 

Send forth a whirring sound ; 

And where alternate springs 

The lilach's purple spire 
Fast by its snowy sister's side ; 

Or where, with wing of fire, 
The kingly oriole glancing went 

Amid the foliage rare, 
Shall many a group of children tread. 

But mine will not be there. 

Fain would I know what forms 

The mastery here shall keep, 
What mother in yon nursery fair 

Rock her young babes to sleep : 
Yet blessings on the hallow'd spot, 

Though here no more I stray. 
And blessings on the stranger-babes 

Who in those halls shall play. 

Heaven bless you, too, my plants. 

And every parent bird 
That here, among the woven boughs, 

Above its young hath stirr'd. 



94 FAREWELL TO A RURAL RESIDENCE. 

I kiss your trunks, ye ancient trees, 

Tiiat often o'er my head 
The blossoms of your flowery spring 

In fragrant showers have shed. 

Thou, too, of changeful mood, 

I thank thee, sounding stream. 
That blent thine echo with my thought, 

Or woke my musing dream. 
I kneel upon the verdant turf. 

For sure my thanks are due 
To moss-cup and to clover-leaf. 

That gave me draughts of dew. 

To each perennial flower, 

Old tenants of the spot. 
The broad-leaf 'd lily of the vale. 

And the meek forget-me-not. 
To every daisy's dappled brow. 

To every violet blue. 
Thanks ! thanks ! may each returning year 

Your changeless bloom renew. 

Praise to our Father-God, 

High praise, in solemn lay, 
Alike for what his hand hath given, 

And what it takes away : 
And to some other loving heart 

May all this beauty be 
The dear retreat, the Eden-home 

That it hath been to me. 



FOLLY. 



" The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God." 

Psalm xiv. 

"No God! no GodT The simplest flower 

That on the wild is found, 
Shrinks as it drinks its oup of dew, 

And trembles at the sound. 
" No God !" astonished echo cries 

From out her cavern hoar, 
And every wandering bird that flies 

Reproves the atheist-lore. 

The solemn forest lifts its head, 

The Almighty to proclaim, 
The brooklet, on its crystal urn, 

Doth leap to grave his name : 
High swells the deep and vengeful sea 

Along his billowy track, 
And red Vesuvius opes his mouth. 

To hurl the falsehood back. 

The palm-tree, with its princely crest. 

The cocoa's leafy shade, 
The bread-fruit, bending to its lord, 

In yon far island-glade ; 
The winged seeds that, borne by winds, 

The roving sparrows feed. 
The melon on the desert-sands, 

Confute the scorner's creed. 



96 FOLLY. 

" No God /" With indignation high 

The fervent sun is stirr'd, 
And the pale moon turns paler still 

At such an impious word ; 
And, from their burning thrones, the stars 

Look down with angry eye. 
That thus a worm of dust should mock 

Eternal Majesty. 



THE DEPARTED PASTOR. 



You will not see him more. You whose young thoughts 

Blent with his image, who to manhood grew 

Beneath the shelter of his saintly shade, 

Bringing your tender infants to his hand 

For the baptismal water, and lived on 

Amid his teachings, till the silver hairs 

Came all unlook'd for, stealing o'er your brow, 

You will not see him more. 

There was a place 
Where, duly as the day of God return'd. 
His solemn voice held converse with the skies 
For you and yours, till more than fourscore years 
Swept in deep billows o'er him. You will hear 
That voice no more. 

There stands his ancient house, 
Where, with the partner of his heart, he shared 
Affection's joys so long, and fondly mark'd 
His children and his children's children rise 
Clustering around his board. 

Remember ye 
His cordial welcome ? how he freely dealt 
A patriarch's wisdom, in monitions kind 
To all who sought him ? how, with hallow'd grace 
Of bounteous hospitality, he gave 
Example of those virtues, pure and sweet, 

I 



98 THE DEPARTED PASTOR. 

Which, round the hearth-stone rooting, have their fruit 
Where men are judged ? 

He linger'd with you late, 
Till all the loved companions of his youth 
Had gone to rest. Yet so he loved your souls, 
That for their sakes he willingly sustain'd 
Life's toil and cumbrance, and stood forth alone, 
An aged oak, amid the fallen grove. 

— His Master call'd. 

It was the Sabbath morn : 
And he had girded up his loins to speak 
A message in the Temple. Time had strown 
The almond-blossom, and his head was white 
As snows of winter, yet his step was firm. 
And in his heart the same unblenching zeal 
That warm'd his youth. 

But, lo ! the Master call'd. 
So, laying down the Bible that he loved, 
That single weapon he so meek had borne 
Through all life's tribulation, he gave back 
The spirit to its Giver, and went home ; 
Yes, full of honours as of days, went home. 



SACRED MUSIC. 



The King of Israel sat in state 

Within his palace fair, 
Where falling fountains, pure and cool, 

Assuaged the sunrinnier air ; 

But shrouded was the son of Kish, 

Mid all his royal grace ; 
The tempest of a troubled soul 

Swept flashing o'er his face. 

In vain were ponnp, or regal power, 
Or courtier's flattering tone, 

For pride and hatred basely sat 
Upon his bosom's throne. 

He call'd upon his minstrel-boy. 
With hair as bright as gold, 

Reclining in a deep recess, 

Where droop'd the curtain's fold. 

Upon his minstrel-boy he call'd, 
And forth the stripling came. 

Bright beauty on his ruddy brow. 
Like morn's enkindling flame. 

" Give music," said the moody king. 
Nor raised his gloomy eye : 



100 SACRED MUSIC. 

" Thou son of Jesse, bring the harp, 
And wake its melody." 

He thought upon his father's flock, 
Which long, in pastures green, 

He led, while flow'd, with silver sound, 
Clear rivulets between. 

He thought of Bethlehem's star-lit skies, 

Beneath whose liquid rays 
He gazed upon the glorious arch. 

And sang its Maker's praise. 

Then boldly o'er the sacred harp 
He pour'd, in thrilling strain, 

The prompting of a joyous heart, 
That knew nor care nor pain. 

The monarch, leaning on his hand. 
Drank long the wondrous lay, 

And clouds were lifted from his brow. 
As when the sunbeams play. 

The purple o'er his heaving breast. 
That throbb'd so wild, grew still, 

And Saul's clear eye glanced out, as when 
He did Jehovah's will. 

O ye who feel the poison-fumes 

Of earth's fermenting care 
Steal o'er the sky of hope, and dim 

What Heaven created fair. 



SACRED MUSIC. 101 

Should languid piety decline 

Within your erring breast, 
Or baleful passion's scorpion-sting 

Bereave your soul of rest, 

Ask music from a guileless heart. 
High tones, with sweetness fraught, 

And, by that alchymy divine. 
Subdue the sinful thought. 
12 



THE RUINS OF HEROD'S PALACE. 



The traveller sat upon a stone, 

A broken column's pride, 
And o'er his head a fig-tree waved 

Its grateful umbrage wide, 
While round him fruitful valleys smiled, 

And crystal streams ran by, 
And the bold mountain's forehead hoar 

Rose up 'tween earth and sky. 

But on a ruin'd pile he gazed, 

Beneath whose mouldering gloom 
The roving fox a shelter found. 

And noisome bats a tomb. 
" Ho, Arab ! " for a ploughman wrought 

The grassy sward among. 
With marble fragments richly strew'd. 

And terraced olives hung, 

" Say, canst thou tell what ancient dome 

In darkness here declines. 
And strangely lifts its spectral form 

Among the matted vines ?" 
He stay'd his simple plough, that traced 

Its crooked furrow nigh, 
And, while his oxen cropp'd the turf, 

Look'd up with vacant eye. 



THE RUINS OF HEROD's PALACE. 103 

" It was some satrap's palace, sure, 

In old time, far away, 
Or else of some great Christian prince, 

I've heard my father say," 
" Arab ! it was King Herod's dome ; 

'Twas there he feasted, free. 
His captains, and the chief estates, 

And lords of Galilee ; 

" 'Twas there the impious dancer's heel 

Lured his rash soul astray." 
But, ere the earnest tale was told, 

The ploughman turn'd away. 
O ruthless king ! thy vaunted pomp 

And power avail thee not. 
Who here, beside thy palace-gates, 

Art by the serf forgot : 

Yet he whose blood in prison-cell 

By thy decree was spilt, 
Whose head, upon the charger brought, 

Appeased revengeful guilt, 
His name, amid a deathless page, 

Gleams forth with living ray. 
While all thy royalty and pride 

Are swept like foam away. 



MONODY ON MRS. HEMANS. 



Nature doth mourn for thee. There comes a voice 

From her far soHtudes, as though the winds 

Murmured low dirges, or the waves complain'd. 

Even the meek plant, that never sang before, 

Save one brief requiem, when its blossoms fell, 

Seems through its drooping leaves to sigh for thee, 

As for a florist dead. The ivy wreathed 

Round the gray turrets of a buried race. 

And the proud palm-trees, that like princes rear 

Their diadems 'neath Asia's sultry sky. 

Blend with their ancient lore thy hallowed name. 

Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make 

Whatever it touched more holy. The pure shell. 

Pressing its pearly lip to ocean's floor, 

The cloister'd chambers where the sea-gods sleep, 

And the unfathom'd, melancholy main. 

Lament for thee, through all the sounding deeps. 

Hark ! from sky-piercing Himmaleh, to where 

Snowdon doth weave hig coronet of cloud. 

From the scath'd pine-tree near the red-man's hut. 

To where the everlasting banian builds 

Its vast columnar temple, comes a wail 

For her who o'er the dim cathedral's arch, 

The quivering sunbeam on the cottage wall. 



MONODY ON MRS. HEMANS. 105 

Or the sere desert, pour'd the lofty chant 
And ritual of the muse : who found the link 
That joins mute nature to ethereal mind, 
And made that link a melody. 

The vales 
Of glorious Albion heard thy tuneful fame. 
And those green cliffs, where erst the Cambrian bards 
Swept their indignant lyres, exulting tell 
How oft thy fairy foot in childhood climb'd 
Their rude, romantic heights. Yet was the couch 
Of thy last slumber in yon verdant isle 
Of song, and eloquence, and ardent soul. 
Which, loved of lavish skies, though bann'd by fate, 
Seem'd as a type of thine own varied lot. 
The crown'd of genius, and the child of wo. 
For at thy breast the ever- pointed thorn 
Did gird itself in secret, mid the gush 
Of such unstain'd, sublime, impassioned song, 
That angels, poising on some silver cloud, 
Might listen mid the errands of the skies, 
And linger all unblamed. 

How tenderly 
Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest, 
And like a nurse, with finger on her lip, 
Watch that no step disturb thee, and no hand 
Profane thy sacred harp. Methinks she waits 
Thy waking, as some cheated mother hangs 
O'er the pale babe, whose spirit death hath stolen, 
And laid it, dreaming, on the lap of Heaven. 



106 MONODY ON MRS. HEMANS. 

Said we that thou art dead ? We dare not. No. 
For every mountain, stream, or shady dell 
Where thy rich echoes linger, claim thee still, 
Their own undying one. To thee was known 
Alike the language of the fragile flower 
And of the burning stars. God taught it thee. 
So, from thy living intercourse with man, 
Thou shalt not pass, until the weary earth 
Drops her last gem into the doomsday flame. 
Thou hast but taken thy seat with that bless'd choir, 
Whose harmonies thy spirit learn'd so well 
Through this low, darken'd casement, and so long 
Interpreted for us. 

Why should we say 
Farewell to thee, since every unborn age 
Shall mix thee with its household charities ? 
The hoary sire shall bow his deafen'd ear. 
And greet thy sweet words with his benison ; 
The mother shrine thee as a vestal flame 
In the lone temple of her sanctity ; 
And the young child who takes thee by the hand, 
Shall travel with a surer step to Heaven. 



THE WIDOW'S PRAYER. 



The youthful maid, the gentle bride, 
The happy wife, her husband's pride, 
Who meekly kneel, at morning ray. 
The incense of their vows to pay. 
Or pour, amid their evening train. 
From love's full heart, the incense-strain, 
What know they of her anguish'd cry 
Who lonely lifts the tearful eye ? 
No sympathizing glance to view 
Her alter'd cheek's unearthly hue, 
No soothing tone to quell the power 
Of grief that bursts at midnight hour. 
O God ! her heart is pierced and bare, 
Have pity on the widow's prayer. 

Not like the mother, by whose side 
The partner sits, her guard and guide, 
Is she who, reft of earthly trust, 
Hath laid her bosom's lord in dust. 
Sleeps her young babe ! but who shall share 
Its waking charms, its holy care ? 
Who shield the daughter's opening bloom. 
Whose father moulders in the tomb ? 
Her son the treacherous world beguiles. 
What voice shall warn him of its wiles ? 
What strong hand break the deadly snare ? 
O answer, Heaven, the widow's prayer ! 



108 



For not the breath of prosperous days, 

Though warm with joy and wing'd with praise, 

E'er kindled such a living coal 

Of deep devotion in the soul 

As that wild blast, which bore away 

Her idol to returnless clay ; 

And, for the wreath that crown'd the brow, 

Left bitter thoughts and hyssop-bough, 

A lonely couch, a sever'd tie, 

A tear that time can never dry, 

Unutter'd wo, unpitied care : 

O God ! regard the widow's prayer. 



"KEEP SILENCE. 



A SABBATH HYMN. 



Keep silence, pride ! What dost thou here, 

With the frail sons of clay 1 
How darest thou in God's courts appear, 

Where contrite spirits pray 1 

Keep silence, wild and vexing care ! 

Six measured days are thine, 
Thy seed to sow, thy chaff to share, 

Steal not the day divine. 

Keep silence, sorrow ! Faith can tell 

With what sublime intent 
Thou to the bosom's inmost cell 

By Heaven's right hand wert sent. 

Keep silence, avarice ! With thy hoard 

So boasted, yet so base, 
Think'st thou the money-changer's board 

Hath here a fitting place ? 

Keep silence, vain and worldly joy, 
Foam on, time's tossing wave ! 

Why lure him with a treacherous toy 
Who trembles o'er the grave ? 
K 



110 "keep silence." 

Keep silence, earth ! the Lord is here, 

Thy great Creator blest ! 
His work of wisdom form'd thy sphere, 

Keep thou His day of rest. 



ABRAHAM AT MACPELAH. 



Deep wrapp'd in shades 
Olive and terebinth, its vaulted door 
Fleck'd with the untrain'd vine and matted grass, 
Behold Macpelah's cave. 

Hark ! hear we not 
A voice of weeping ? Lo, yon aged man 
Bendeth beside his dead. Wave after wave 
Of memory rises, till his lonely heart 
Sees all its treasures floating on the flood, 
Like rootless weeds. 

The earliest dawn of love 
Is present with him, and a form of grace, 
Whose beauty held him ever in its thrall : 
And then, the morn of marriage, gorgeous robes. 
And dulcet music, and the rites that bless 
The Eastern bride. Full many a glowing scene, 
Made happy by her tenderness, returns 
To mock his solitude, as the sharp lance 
Severs the quivering nerve. His quiet home 
Gleams through the oaks of Mamre. There he sat, 
Rendering due rites of hospitality 
To guests who bore the folded wing of Heaven 
Beneath their vestments. And her smile was there. 
Among the angels. 

When her clustering curls 
Wore Time's chill hoar-frost, with what glad surprise, 



112 ABRAHAM AT MACPELAH. 

What holy triumph of exulting faith, 

He saw fresh blooming in her wither'd arms 

A fair young babe, the heir of all his wealth. 

Forever blending with that speechless joy 

Which thrill'd his soul, when first a father's name 

Fell on his ear, is that pale, placid brow 

O'er which he weeps. 

Yet had he seen it wear 
Another semblance, tinged with hues of thought. 
Perchance unlovely, in that trial-hour. 
When to sad Hagur's mute, reproachful eye 
He answer'd naught, but on her shoulder laid 
The water-bottle and the loaf, and sent 
Her and her son, unfriended wanderers, forth 
Into the wilderness. 

Say, who can mourn 
Over the smitten idol, by long years 
Cemented with his being, yet perceive 
No dark remembrance that he fain would blot, 
Troubling the tear. If there were no kind deed 
Omitted, no sweet healing word of love 
Expected, yet unspoken ; no light tone 
That struck discordant on the shivering nerve, 
For which the weeper fain would rend the tomb 
To cry forgive ! oh, let him kneel and praise 
' God amid all his grief. 

We may not say 
If aught of penitence was in the pang 
That wrung the labouring breast, while o'er the dust 
Of Sarah, at Macpelah's waiting tomb. 
The proud and princely Abraham bow'd him down, 
A mourning stranger, mid the sons of Heth. 



"JESUS OF NAZARETH PASSETH BY." 

St. Luke, xviii., 39. 



Watcher, who wak'st by the bed of pain, 
While the stars sweep on with their midnight train. 
Stifling the tear for thy loved one's sake, 
Holding thy breath lest her sleep should break. 
In thy loneliest hour there's a helper nigh : 

"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." 

Stranger, afar from thy native land. 
Whom no one takes with a brother's hand, 
Table and hearthstone are glowing free. 
Casements are sparkling, but not for thee ; 
There is one who can tell of a home on high : 

"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." 

Sad O'ne, in secret bending low, 

A dart in thy breast that the world may not know. 

Wrestling the favour of God to win. 

His seal of pardon for days of sin : 

Press on, press on, with thy prayerful cry, 

" Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." 

Mourner, who sitt'st in the churchyard lone. 
Scanning the lines on that marble stone. 
Plucking the weeds from thy children's bed. 
Planting the myrtle and rose instead, 
K2 



114 " JESUS OF NAZARETH PASSETH BY. 

Look up from the tomb with thy tearful eye, 

" Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." 

Fading one, with the hectic streak 

In thy veins of fire and thy wasted cheek, 

Fear'st thou the shade of the darkened vale ? 

Look to the guide who can never fail : 

He hath trod it himself! He will hear thy sigh, 

" Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." 



GOOD-NIGHT OF THE BIRDS. 



It was a Sabbath evening 

In spring's most glorious time, 
When tree, and shrub, and early flower 

Were in their fragrant prime ; 
And where the cloudless sun declined, 

A glow of light serene, 
A blessing on the world he left. 

Came floating o'er the scene. 

Then from the verdant hedgerow 

A gentle descant stole. 
And with its tide of melody 

Dissolved the listening soul. 
The tenants of that leafy lodge, 

Each in its downy nest, 
Pour'd forth a fond and sweet "good-night" 

Before they sank to rest. 

That tender parting carol ! 

How wild it was, and deep. 
And then, with soft, harmonious close, 

It melted into sleep ; 
Methought, in yonder land of praise, 

Which faith delights to view. 
True-hearted, peaceful worshippers. 

There might be room for you. 



116 GOOD-NIGHT OF THE BIRDS. 

Ye give us many a lesson 

Of music high and rare, 
Sweet teachers of the lays of heaven, 

Say, will ye not be there ? 
Ye have no sins, like ours, to purge 

"With penitential dew ; 
Oh ! in the clime of perfect love, 

Is there no place for you ? 



THE DYING YEAR. 



Voice of the Dying Year ! I hear thy moan, 

Like some spent breaker of the distant sea, 

Chafing the fretted rock. Is this the end 

Of thy fresh morning music, gushing out 

In promises of hope ? Have the bright flush 

Of Spring's young beauty, crown'd with budding flowers, 

The passion- vow of Summer, and the pledge 

Of faithful, fruitful Autumn, come to this? 

I see thy youngling moon go down the west, 

The midnight clock gives warning, and its stroke 

Must be thy death-knell. Is that quivering gasp 

The last sad utterance of thine agony ? 

I see thy clay-cold fingers try to clasp 

Some prop — in vain ! 

And so thou art no more. 
No more ! Thy rest is with oblivious years 
Beyond the flood. Yet when the trump shall sound. 
Blown by the strong archangel, thou shalt wake 
From the dim sleep of ages. When the tombs 
That lock their slumbering tenants cleave in twain, 
Thou shalt come forth. Yea, thou shalt rise again. 
And I shall look upon thee, when the dead 
Stand before God. But come not murmuring forth, 
Unwillingly, like Samuel's summon'd ghost, 



118 THE DYING YEAR. 

To daunt me at the judgment. No ; be kind, 
Be pitiful, bear witness tenderly ; 
And if thou hast a dread account for me, 
Go, dip thy dark scroll in redeeming blood. 



HYMN AT SEA. 



God of the ever-rolling deep, 
Our Father and our trust, 
Who bidd'st its mighty billows sweep 
' Around the born of dust, 

Who bidd'st it towering o'er them raise 

Its everlasting walls, 
Yet giv'st them slumber calm and sweet. 

As in their native halls, 

God of the strong, unfathom'd tide. 
Whose pavement dark and drear. 

The wrecks of human power and pride. 
Awake our trembling fear, 

O grant us, as the lonely dove 

Unto the ark did flee. 
Mid the hoarse tumult of the waves 
To rest secure in Thee. 



THE DEPARTED FRIEND. 



O Friend ! the light is dead 
In thy fair mansion, where in bright array 

Love moved with buoyant tread, 
And childhood's merry laughter, day by day, 
Made the heart glad, and music lent its zest, 
And hospitable smiles allured the welcome guest. 

And in the holy place 
A brow of beautiful and earnest thought, 

A form of manly grace, 
Are missing ; and we gaze with sorrow fraught 
Upon that vacant seat where beam'd for years 
That spirit-speaking eye, the pastor's toil that cheers. 

And from the couch of pain, 

The cell of want, a voice hath pass'd away 

Which sooth'd the suffering train, 
And warn'd the smitten sinful man to pray ; 
Which, till the verge of life, with accents clear. 
Told how a Christian's faith the hour of death can cheer. 

O Friend ! how great thy gain, 
Thus borne in manhood's vigour to the skies, 

Ere age or wasting pain 
Had chill'd the full fount of thy sympathies. 
Those sympathies that still with ardent glow 
Joy'd at another's joy, or mourn'd for other's wo. 



THE DEPARTED FRIEND. 121 

Hast thou embraced them there, 
Thy kindred, tenants of yon world of bliss ? 

Oh say, do angels share 
The sympathies so sweetly sown in this ? 

The nurtured 'neath one roof, one native sky, 
Meet they with changeless love where every tear is dry ? 

Ah ! hast thou seen his face 
Whom thy young hand with tender zeal did lead 

To seek a Saviour's grace ? 
That brother, who, God's flock ordain'd to feed, 
Touch'd with pure lip the altar's living fire. 
And earlier found his place with Heaven's immortal choir. 

Say, at the pearly gate 
Hail'd she thy coming with a fond acclaim ; 

She who, with hope elate, 
Taught thy young lisping tongue the Almighty's name ? 
And he, whose life closed like a hymn of praise, 
Thy patriarchal sire, serene and full of days ? 

Be silent ; ask no more ; 
Bow in deep reverence to the sacred dead ; 

No mortal thought may soar 
To their high ecstasy, unnamed and dread ; 
Wait till the temple's veil is rent for thee, 
And let God's will be thine, heir of eternity. 

L 



HEAVEN'S LESSON. 



Heaven teacheth thee to mourn, O friend beloved ; 
Thou art its pupil now. The lowest class, 
The first beginners in its school, may learn 
How to rejoice. The sycamore's broad leaf, 
Thriird by the breeze, the humblest grass-bird's nest, 
Murmur of gladness, and the wondering babe, 
Borne by its nurse out in the open fields, 
Knoweth that lesson. The wild mountain-stream 
That throws by fits its gushing music forth, 
The careless sparrow, happy, though the frosts 
Nip his light foot, have learn'd the simple lore 
How to rejoice. Mild Nature teacheth it 
To all her innocent works. 

But God alone 
Instructeth how to mourn. He doth not trust 
This highest lesson to a voice or hand 
Subordinate. Behold ! He cometh forth ! 
O sweet disciple, bow thyself to learn 
The alphabet of tears. Receive the lore, 
Sharp though it be, to an unanswering breast, 
A will subdued. And may such wisdom spring 
From these rough rudiments, that thou shalt gain 
A class more noble, and, advancing, soar 
Where the sole lesson is a seraph's praise. 
Yea, be a docile scholar, and so rise 
Where mourning hath no place. 



DEATH OF A FATHER. 



Say, shall we render thanks for him 

Whose sorrows all are o'er ? 
Whose footsteps leave the storm-wash'd sands 

Of this terrestrial shore 1 
Who to the garner of the bless'd, 

In yon immortal land, 
Was gather'd, as the ripen'd sheaf 

Doth meet the reaper's hand ? 

Yet precious was that reverend man, 

And to his arm I clung, 
Till more than fourscore weary years 

Their shadows o'er him flung ; 
Not lonely or unloved he dwelt, 

Though earliest friends had fled, 
For sweet aflections sprang anew 

When older roots were dead. 

There lies the Holy Book of God, 

His oracle and guide, 
Where last my children read to him, 

The page still open wide ; 
Yet where he bent to hear their voice 

Is but a vacant chair, 
A lone staff standing by its side : 

They call— he is not there ! 



DEATH OF A FATHER. 

He is not there, my little ones ! 

So suddenly he fled, 
They cannot bring it to their minds 

That he is of the dead. 
Yet oft the hymns he sang with them, 

So tunefully and slow, 
Shall wake sad echo in their souls, 

Like parting tones of wo. 

There was his favourite noonday seat, 

Beneath yon trellised vine. 
To mark the embryo clusters swell, 

The aspiring tendrils twine ; 
Or, lightly leaning on his staff, 

With vigorous step he went 
A little way among the flowers. 

With morning dews besprent. 

How dear was every rising sun 

That cloudless met his eye, 
And, nightly, how his graceful prayer 

Rose upward, warm and high ; 
For freely to his God he gave 

The blossom of his prime, 
So He forgot him not amid 

The water-floods of time. 

The cherish'd memories of the past, 
How strong they burn'd, and clear, 

Prompting the tale the listening boy 
Still held his breath to hear, 



DEATH OF A FATHER. 125 

How a young cradled nation woke 

To grasp the glittering brand, 
And strangely raise the half-knit arm 

To brave the mother-land. 

Those stormy days ! those stormy days ! 

When, with a fearful cry. 
The blood-stain'd earth at Lexington 

Invoked the avenging sky. 
When in the scarce-drawn furrow 

The farmer's plough was stay'd, 
And for the gardener's pruning-hook 

Sprang forth the warrior's blade. 

The glorious deeds of Washington, 

The chiefs of other days ! 
Another lip is silent now 

That used to speak their praise ; 
Another link is stricken 

From the living chain that bound 
The legends of an ancient race 

Our thrilling hearts around. 

We gaze on where the patriarchs stood 

In ripen'd virtue strong, 
How shall we dare to fill the place 

That they have fill'd so long ? 
How on the bosoms of our race 

Enforce the truths they breathed. 
Or wear that mantle of the skies 

They to our souls bequeathed ? 
L2 



126 DEATH OF A FATHER. 

But ah ! to think that breast is cold, 

Whose sympathetic tone 
Responded to my joys and woes 

As though they were its own, 
To know the prayer that was my guard, 

My pilot o'er the sea, 
Must never, in this vale of tears, 

Be lifted more for me. 

There was no frost upon his hair, 

No anguish on his brow. 
Those bright brown locks, my pride and care, 

Methinks I see them now ; 
Methinks that beaming smile I see. 

In love and patience sweet, 
O father ! must that smile no more 

My quicken'd footsteps greet 1 

Yet wrong we not that messenger 

Who gather'd back the breath. 
Calling him ruthless spoiler, stern, 

And fell destroyer, death ? 
His touch was like the angel's 

Who comes at close of day 
To lull the willing flowers asleep 

Until the morning ray. 

And so they laid the righteous man 

'Neath the green turf to rest, 
And blessed were the words of prayer 

That fell upon his breast ; 



I 



DEATH OF A FATHER. 127 

For sure it were an ingrate's deed 

To murmur or repine, 
That such a life, my sire, was closed 

By such as death as thine. 

But thou, our God, who know'st our frame, 

Whose shield is o'er us spread, 
When every idol of our love 

Is desolate and dead. 
Father and mother may forsake, 

Yet be Thou still our trust, 
And let thy chastenings cleanse the soul 

From vanity and dust. 



"OREMUS."* 



Oremus. Lo, the infant morn 

Is in the curtain'd orient born, 

And fleet the volumed mists away 

Before th' exulting eye of day. 

High soar the birds, the groves rejoice, 

Mute Nature smiles to hear their voice, 

Smiles through the crystal streams that shine, 

And through the flowers their banks that line. 

O man, creation's noblest heir, 

Pour'st thou to God no grateful prayer ? 

Lift up the heart, his word believe, 

And freely as ye ask, receive. 

Oremus, Noon is riding high. 
The manhood of the day is nigh. 
The hour of fervour and of care ; 
Haste where cool shades thy strength repair, 
Where clustering vines, and boughs that weep, 
Shall lull thy weariness to sleep. 
Know'st thou that cordial balm to gain 
Which sooths the broken spirit's pain ? 
Know'st thou where grows the living bread ? 
Where Heaven's unrusting gold is spread ? 
Where hides the spell that heals the blind ? 
Go, seek the key of Heaven, and find. 

* "Let us pray." 



129 



Oremus. Twilight's pensive eye 
Peers o'er the bulwark of the sky, 
The night-watch of the stars is set, 
The gibbous moon the clouds hath met. 
That o'er her disk, with anger pale, 
In playful arrogance prevail. 
Day seals her casket close, to wait 
For the last judgment's awful fate ; 
If pardon for thine erring deed, 
Or guardian o'er thy couch there need. 
Knock, and the gate of Heaven shall be 
Thrown open to thy wants and thee. 

Oremus : till the glittering store 
Of youth and hope delude no more. 
Till ripen'd years have stolen away. 
And hermit age with temples gray. 
And tottering staff, and vacant air. 
Shall lead thee on, thou know'st not where, 
Till he who wields the mortal sting 
His never-erring shaft shall wing. 
Crush the weak clay in ruins dread. 
The cistern break with dew-drops fed, 
Oremus : till seraphic lays 
Turn prayer's imploring tone to praise. 



RETURN OF THE PARENTS. 



Long had they sped 
O'er distant hill and valley, noting much 
God's goodness in the riches of the lEind, 
The summer fruitage, and the harvest hoard, 
The reaper, wrestling with the bearded wheat, 
And the proud torrent's glory, when it shakes 
The everlasting rock, nor yet forgets 
To sprinkle greenness on the lowliest flower. 
All trembling at its base. Much, too, they spake 
Of pleasure 'neath the hospitable roof 
Of sever'd kindred ; how the quicken'd heart 
Wins, from such meetings, power to wipe away 
The dust of household care, which sometimes hangs 
In clouds o'er the clear spirit. 

But anon 
The eloquent lip grew silent, for they drew 
Near that bless'd spot which throws all other lights 
Into strong shadow — liome ! 

At that dear thought 
The bosom's pulse beat wildly, and the wheels 
Were all too slow, though scarce the eager steeds 
Obey'd the rein. And, as the mother spake 
Somewhat in murmurs of her youngest boy. 
There came a flood of beauty o'er her brow — 
For holy love hath beauty — which gray time 
Could never steal. 



RETURN OF THE PARENTS. 131 

'Tis there, behind the trees, 
That well-known roof: and from the open door 
What a glad rush ! The son, who fain would take 
His mother in his arms, as if her foot 
Was all too good for earth ; and at his side 
The beautiful daughter, with her raven hair 
So smoothly folded o'er her classic brow ; 
The infant, crowing in its nurse's arms ; 
The bold boy, in his gladness springing up 
Even to his father's shoulder ; lisping tongues, 
And little dancing feet, and outstretch'd hands 
Grasping the parents' skirts : it was a group 
That artist's pencil never yet hath sketch'd 
In all its plenitude. 

And when I saw 
The brightness of the tear of joy, I felt 
How poor the pomp of princes, and the dross 
Of beaten gold, compared with that dear wealth — 
Home, and its gratulations, and the ties 
Which Heaven hath twisted round congenial souls, 
To draw them to itself. 



PELICAN ON THE SEA OF GALILEE. 



" A single pelican was floating there ; like myself, he was alone."— (S/e- 
phois's Incidents of Travel. 

Lone bird, upon yon sacred sea, 

Dimpling with solitary breast 
The silent wave of Galilee, 

Where shall thine oary foot find rest ? 

Hast thou a home mid rock or reed 

Of this most desolate domain. 
Where not one ibex dares to feed. 

Nor Arab tent imprints the plain ? 

What know'st thou of Bethsaida's gate 1 

Or old Chorazin's desert bound ? 
What heed'st thou of Capernaum's fate. 

Whose shapeless ruins throng around ? 

Once, when the tempest's wing was dark, 
A sleeper rose and calm'd the sea, 

And snatch'd from death the fragile bark — 
Here was the spot, but who was he ? 

He heard the surge impetuous roar. 

And trod sublime its wildest crest, 
Redeemer ! was yon watery floor 

Thus by thy glorious feet impress'd ? 



PELICAN ON THE SEA OF GALILEE. 133 

Oh, when each earthly hope and fear, 
Each fleeting loss, each fancied gain, 

Shall to our death-dimmM sight appear 
Like the lost cities of the plain, 

Then may the soul, enslaved no more. 

Launch calmly on salvation's sea. 
And part from time's receding shore, 

Lone, peaceful pelican ! like thee. 
M 



THE PAST. 



" God requireth that which is past." — Ecclesiastes. 

The Past ! We have forgotten it : 

Its shadowy reign is o'er, 
And like a folded mist hangs 

O'er dim oblivion's shore ; 
The deeds of childhood's distant day, 

Light words from youth that fell, 
Unnumber'd thoughts of ripen'd years, 

Who can their import tell ? 

The Present, with its strong embrace, 

Our prison'd heart detains, 
The Future lures us blindfold on 

By Hope's illusive chains : 
But who to woo the hoary Past, 

That old and wither'd crone, 
Turns with a lover's ardent eye. 

Or an enthusiast's tone ? 

Yet Heaven records, though we forget, 

Each deed that shuns the light. 
Each word that melted into air, 

And hid from memory's sight ; 
The very thoughts that in their birth 

Sank motionless and dead. 
All have their impress on that page 

Which at God's bar is read. 



THE PAST. 135 



The Present, like an eagle's wing, 

May from our vision fleet. 
The Future, in its robe of dreams, 

Our grasp may never meet ; 
But, frail one, with the fearful Past 

Mysterious secrets are. 
Oh, spread thy conscience to thy Judge 

In penitence and prayer. 



ATTENDING A FORMER PUPIL TO THE 
GRAVE. 



Daughter, I will not leave thee. 

Thou wert wont 
To sit so close beside me with thy task, 
And lift thy little book, and scan my face. 
Timing thy question wisely to my cares, 
And thou wouldst gently put thy hand in mine 
When summer-school was o'er, and strive to lead 
To thine own pleasant home, bespeaking still 
For me such things as unto thee were dear, 
Thy white-hair'd grandsire's kindness, or the walk 
In the sweet plat of flowers, until I felt 
That, of a pupil, I had made a friend. 

I will not leave thee, now that thou must take 
Thy journey to thy sepulchre. I know 
How timid thou wert ever, and wouldst cling 
Unto my arm when childhood's little fears 
Or troubles daunted thee. But now, behold. 
Thou on thy low and sable carriage lead'st 
And marshall'st us the way where we must go, 
Each for himself. 

Stranger and friend sweep on 
In long procession. 

Daughter, I am near 
In this most solemn hour. I'll stay and hear 



ATTENDING A FORMER PUPIL TO THE GRAVE. 137 

The " Dust to dust," that turns the cheek so pale 

Of mourning love. Till the green turf is laid, 

The last sad office of affection o'er, 

I will not leave thee, sweetest. No, I'll wait 

Till every lingerer hasteth to his home, 

And then I'll breathe a prayer beside thy bed. 

Thou, who so oft hast pour'd thy prayer with me. 

I'll be the last to leave thee. O, be first 
To welcome me above, if, through the trust 
In my Redeemer's strength, I thither rise from dust, 
M 2 



THE HEATH IN THE DESERT. 



1 



" He shall be like the heath in the desert, and shall not see when good 
Cometh." — Jeremiah, xvii., 6. 

There falls a bless'd rain on the desolate scene, 
The long-withered herbage is healthful and green, 
New verdure replaces the bramble and thorn, 
In dry, sterile regions fresh fountains are born. 
The murmur of streamlets rejoices the ear — 
Wake, heath of the desert ! salvation is near. 

There breathes a soft wind o'er the bones of the slain, 
It hath clothed them with flesh, they are hving again ; 
Like the host of the Lord, in bright armour they stand, 
Their banners wave wide at His word of command. 
The wilderness smiles on their glorious array — 
Wake, heath of the desert ! and gladden their way. 

There sweeps a dark cloud o'er the blue of the sky. 

Hoarse thunders are muttering, the tempest draws nigh, 

The chariot of God rolleth on in its ire. 

The mountains are humbled, the valleys aspire, 

Lo, the scorner and slumberer their folly deplore— 

Wake, heath of the desert ! ere time be no more. 



HYMN IN SICKNESS. 



This life, with all its thousand ties, 

Is but a loan from Thee 
Our God, whose wisdom framed the skies, 

Whose strength controls the sea. 

Thine are its early joys, that spring 
Like flowers where'er we tread, 

And thine its later comforts too. 
When morning hopes are fled. 

Thou Maker of this feeble frame, 

Who know'st its every pain. 
And bidd'st its broken wheels roll on 

When man's poor help is vain. 

Still plainly as thy power is seen, 
Thy bless'd compassions shine, 

So would we peaceful rest our souls 
Upon thine arm divine, 

And, clinging to our Saviour's cross, 

Supported by His love, 
Pass through this changeful life below, 

To deathless life above. • 



REQUEST OF THE DYING CHILD. 



Stretch'd on the couch of pain, there lay a child 
Of some few summers. The dense city's roofs 
Throng'd thick around her, and the vertic sun 
Pour'd from those glowing tiles a fervid heat 
Upon her shrinking nerves. Sad she retraced 
The rural scenes where her young childhood grew, 
And wishfully her pale lips shaped the sound 
Of home, sweet home, 

" Dear mother, take me there, 
To that first home. The early flowers that sprung 
Beside the garden walk, and those tall trees, 
Would I might see them but once more, and touch 
The pleasant vine that o'er my window climb'd. 
I could breathe freer there." 

And so they raised 
The languid child, for how could they deny 
Her last heart-yearning ? and with mournful tears 
Wrapp'd as a traveller her whom Death had seal'd 
For his returnless journey. 

Swift the boat 
Shot o'er the river-tide, and then the wheel, 
Careful yet tedious, mark'd the well-known track 
O'er hill and valley. Patiently she bore 
The weary travel, and when sunset brought 
The well-remember'd haunt, upraised her head, 
And with a tremulous and tender tone 



REQUEST OF THE DYING CHILD. 

Hail'd each familiar object. It would seem 

As if, indulgent to her fond request, 

Death waited for her. Though the thread-like pulse 

StirrM not the ivory arm, and the poor heart 

Scarce forced the life-tide oozing drop by drop, 

Yet still Death waited for her. 

One full hour 
She lay within his icy arms, and drew 
In deep, long, quivering gasps her native air. 
He waited for her while she grasp'd the flowers, 
The fresh wild-flowers that bloom'd where she was born. 
And while she gazed upon the waving trees. 
And press'd the fragrant vine-leaves to her brow. 
But then he coldly beckon'd her away : 
And so she meekly kiss'd her mother's lips. 
And went to rest. 

How sweet that home to thee 
From whence is no departure, peaceful child ! 
And where no pilgrim with his dusty staff 
Toils just to gaze upon its blissful gate. 
Then turn and die. 

And they who fed thee here 
With love's rich balm-cup, let it be their joy, 
Their hymn of gratulation night and day. 
That thou art gathered with the pure in heart, 
Back to thy natural element again. 



THE CHURCH BELL. 



When glowing in the eastern sky, 
The Sabbath morning meets the eye, 
And o'er a weary, care-worn scene, 
Gleams like the ark-dove's leaf of green, 
How welcome over hill and dale, 
Thy hallow'd summons loads the gale. 

Sweet bell ! Church bell ! 

When earthly joys and sorrows end, 
And towards our long repose we tend, 
How mournfully thy tone doth call 
The weepers to the funeral, 
And to the last abode of clay. 
With solemn knell mark out the way. 

Sad bell ! Church bell ! 

If to the clime where pleasures reign. 
We through a Saviour's love attain, 
If freshly to an angel's thought, 
Earth's unforgotten scenes are brought. 
Will not thy voice, that warn'd to prayer. 
Be gratefully remember'd there, 

Bless'd bell ? Church bell ? 



THE BUTTERFLY. 



A BUTTERFLY bask'd on a baby's grave, 

Where a lily had chanced to grow : 

" Why art thou here, with thy gaudy die, 

When she of the blue and sparkling eye, 

Must sleep in the churchyard low ?" 

Then it lightly soar'd through the sunny air, 
And spoke from its shining track : 

" I was a worm till I won my wings, 

And she whom thou mourn'st like a seraph sings 
Wouldst thou call the bless'd one back ?" 



MONODY TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH. 



So Asia hath thy dust, thou who wert born 
Amid my own wild hillocks, where the voice 
Of falling waters and of gentle gales 
Mingle their music. How thy soft dark eye. 
Thy graceful form, thy soul-illumined smile, 
Gleam forth upon me when I muse at eve, 
Mid the bright imagery of earliest years. 



Hear I the murmur'd echo of thy name 

From yon poor forest race ? 'Tis meet for them 

To hoard thy memory as a blessed star. 

For thou didst seek their lowly homes, and tell 

Their sad-brow'd children of a Saviour's love. 

And of a clime where no oppressor comes. 

Cold winter found thee there, and summer's heat. 

With zeal unblenching. Though perchance the sneer 

Might curl some worldling's lip, 'twas not for thee 

To note its language, or to scorn the soul 

Of the neglected Indian, or to tread 

Upon the ashes of his buried kings 

As on a loathsome weed. 

Thine own fair halls 
Lured thee in vain, until the hallow'd church 
Rear'd its light dome among them, and the voice 
Of a devoted shepherd, day by day, 
Call'd back those wanderers to the sheltering fold 
Of a Redeemer's righteousness. 



MONODY TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH. 145 

And then 
Thy path was on the waters, and thy hand 
Close clasp'd in his who bore so fearless forth 
The glorious Gospel to those ancient climes 
Which in the darkness and the shade of death 
Benighted dwell. 

Strong ties detain'd thee here : 
Home — father — sightless mother — sister dear — 
Brothers and tender friends — a full array 
Of hope and bliss. But what were those to thee, 
Who on God's altar laid the thought of self? 
What were such joys to thee, if duty bade 
Their crucifixion ? 

Oh ! Jerusalem ! 
Jerusalem ! Say, do I see thee there ? 
Pondering the flinty path thy Saviour trod, 
Or fervent kneeling where his prayer arose, 
All night on Olivet ? or with meek hand 
Culling from pure Siloam's marge a flower, 
Whose tender leaflets drink as fresh a dew 
As when unhumbled Judah wore the crown 
Of queenly beauty ? or with earnest eye 
Exploring where the shepherd-minstrel kept 
His father's flock, before the cares that lodge 
Within the thorn-wreath'd circlet of a king 
Had turn'd his temples gray ? or with sweet smile 
Reposing, wearied, in thy simple tent 
By turbid Jordan and the bitter wave 
Of the Asphaltites? 

Back to thy place 
Amid the Syrian vales, to thy loved toils 
For the forsaken Druses, to the throng 
N 



146 MONODV TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH. 

Of heathen babes, who on thine accents hang 
As on a mother's ; for the time is short. 
Perils upon the waters wait for thee, 
And then another Jordan, from whose flood 
Is no return. 

But thou, with lip so pale, 
Didst take the song of triumph, and go down 
Alone and fearless through its depths profound. 
Snatches of heavenly harpings made thee glad, 
Even to thy latest gasp. 

Therefore the grief 
Born at thy grave is not like other grief. 
Tears mix with joy. We praise our God for thee. 



A FATHER'S PITY. 

" Like as a father pitieth his children." — David. 

How doth a father pity ? 

See the snare 
Of loathsome vice around his son entwine ; 
Behold his mournful mien, his anxious air ; 
List to his earnest cry for aid divine ; 
Precept on precept pour'd, and line on line, 
To snatch the victim from a gulf profound ; 
And should those steps once more to peace incline, 
How do the parent's lips with praise resound, 
As swell the heavenly harps when a lost soul is found. 

How doth a father pity ? 

Ask the form 
That feebly on his sheltering bosom Hes, 
Like smitten lily shrinking from the storm. 
Consumption's signal in her languid eyes ; 
What torturing sympathies within him rise, 
When the fierce cough awakes with racking throe, 
And to her cheek the burning hectic flies, 
How is his manly breast surcharged with wo 
To see his darling hope, like fading flower, laid low. 

How doth a father pity ? 

Mark his face 
Bow'd in deep anguish o'er his cradled heir, 
Faint struggling in the ice of death's embrace, 
With ceaseless moaning and convulsive stare, 



148 A father's pity. 

Reproachful calling on the parents' care 
To ease its pangs ; fain would those hearts that burst 
Their lamblike nursling's mortal misery bear : 
So doth He pity us who is our trust, 
The Former of our frame, remembering we are dust. 



MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS AT SEA. 



Borne upon the ocean's foam, 
Far from native land and home, 
Midnight's curtain dense with wrath, 
Brooding o'er our venturous path, 
While the mountain wave is rolling, 
And the ship's bell faintly tolling : 
Saviour ! on the boisterous sea. 
Bid us rest secure in Thee. 

Blast and surge conflicting hoarse, 
Sweep us on with headlong force. 
And the bark which tempests urge, 
Moans and trembles at their scourge ; 
Yet, if wildest tempests swell. 
Be thou near, and all is well. 
Saviour ! on the stormy sea, 
Let us find repose in Thee. 

Hearts there are with love that burn. 
When to us afar they turn ; 
Eyes that show the rushing tear 
If our utter'd names they hear : 
Saviour ! o'er the faithless main. 
Bring us to those homes again. 
As the trembler, touch'd by Thee, 
Safely trod the treacherous sea. 
N2 



150 MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS AT SEA. 

Wrecks are darkly spread below, 
Where with lonely keel we go ; 
Gentle brows and bosoms brave 
Those abysses richly pave ; 
If beneath the briny deep 
We, with them, should coldly sleep, 
Saviour ! o'er the whelming sea, 
Take our ransom'd souls to Thee. 



CHANGES. 



Come to thy native village, thou, who long 

Hast been a denizen of richer climes 

And prouder cities. Nature all adorn'd 

Welcomes thee back, and, like a peasant-friend 

Exulting, filleth at her cottage-door 

The beechen cup, with honey'd balm, for thee. 

She fain would tell thee tales of every change 

In her slight drama since thou last wert here, 

Though none her scene hath shifted, or exchanged 

Her honest-hearted actors, save gray Time, 

Scattering the elm.leaves o'er the russet walk, 

Or to the seedling in its bed of mould, 

Whispering that spring hath come. She bids thee seek 

Thy favourite brook, while Memory, ancient crone, 

Waiteth to point thee where thy tiny boat 

Or water-wheel sped gayly, or to show 

The broader pool, upon whose icy glade 

Thy foot was fleetest, while thy merry voice 

Rang like a bugle when the shout was high. 

See'st thou yon blooming creature, sweetly deckM 

With all the grace of perfect womanhood ? 

Lo, thou hast taken her ofttimes in thine arms. 

When but a few brief moons had o'er her roll'd, 

And sang to please her, though the watchful nurse 

Was fain to snatch her from thine untaught hand, 

Fearing thy whisker'd cheek might frighten her. 



152 CHANGES. 

Thou canst not think so many years have fled 
Since those good times ; and yet as silently 
As the light snowflake glide our fleeting days, 
And, while we dream their greenness still survives, 
Amid the remnant of their wither'd pride 
Our steps make sullen echo. 

But 'tis weak 
To mourn the change that nature writes on man, 
As heavenly wisdom dictates. Doth the sheaf 
Look back regretful to its bursting germe ? 
Or the ripe fruit bemoan the fallen flower ? 
Why then should man lament his vanished morn ? 
The day of duty is the day of joy ; 
Of highest joy, such as the heavens do bless. 
So keep perpetual summer in thy soul. 
And take the spirit's smile along with thee. 
Even to thy winding-sheet. 

Yon lowly roof, 
Thou know'st it well, and yet it seems more low 
Than it was wont to seem ; for thou hast been 
A visitant of loftier domes, and halls 
Meet for the feet of princes. Ask thou not 
For father or for mother, they who made 
That humble home so beautiful to thee : 
But go thy way, and show to some young heart 
The same deep love, the same unchanging zeal 
Of pure example, pointing to the skies 
That nurtured thee. So shalt thou pay the debt 
To nature's best affections and to God, 



THE FIRESIDE. 



" Say, what have you brought to our own fireside ?" 

'Twas a mother's voice that spake : 
" The wintry tempest doth loudly chide, 
But peace and joy shall with us abide — 

Oh, cherish them for my sake. 

" A common stock is our happiness here : 

Each heart must contribute its mite 
The bliss to swell or the pain to cheer ; 
Husband, and son, and daughter dear, 

What have you brought to-night ?" 

Then the studious boy, from his storied page, 

Look'd up with a thoughtful eye : 
That knowledge gleam'd thence which doth charm the 

sage, 
A.nd shine like a flame through the frost of age 

With warmth and majesty. 

A girl was there, like a rose on its stem. 

And her sacred song she pour'd : 
Beauty and music, a blended gem. 
Shook from their sparkling diadem, 

To enrich the evening hoard. 



154 THE FIRESIDE. 

By a pale, sick child was a treasure brought, 

The smile of patient trust, 
For disease had a precious moral wrought, 
And quiet and pure was her chasten' d thought. 

As a pearl by the rude sea nursed. 

An infant rose from its cradle-bed, 

And clung to the mother's breast. 
But soon to the knee of its sire it sped — 
Love was its gift — and the angels said 
That the baby's gift was best. 

Then the father spake, with a grateful air, 
Of the God whom his youth had known ; 
And the mother's sigh of tender care 
Went up in the shape of a winged prayer, 
And was heard before the Throne. 



SEED FOR HEAVEN. 



The boy sat listening to the words 

That from his mother fell, 
Pure lessons, wrapp'd in gentle tones, 

Like music's softest swell. 

And oft he mark'd her musing brow, 

With holy silence bright. 
And blessM its placid smile, and deem'd 

That angels loved the sight. 

Yet when that mother laid her down 
To rest in mouldering clay. 

The world's temptations o'er him roll'd, 
And swept his faith away. 

Like bird that scorns the fowler's snare, 

He trifled with his fate. 
Forgot to seek the Spirit's aid, 

Or for its teachings wait. 

Yet once, as in his midnight watch, 

The lonely deck he paced. 
With naught but solemn stars above, 

And, round, old Ocean's waste, 



156 SEED FOR HEAVEN. 

Methought her warning voice, who long 
'Neath the cold sods had slept, 

Spake forth from every rushing wave 
That on resistless swept ; 

Methought a teardrop, like her own, 
Fell from the gathering cloud. 

That round the slowly-rising moon 
Had wreath'd its silver shroud ; 

Methought the searching eye of God 

Flamed in his secret soul. 
And down the proud man bow'd, with tears. 

To own its strong control : 

The Saviour's lowly yoke he took, 

His flinty heart was riven, 
And so the seed his mother sow'd 

Brought forth rich fruit for Heaven. 



DREAMS. 



Revere the mind, so full of mystery, 
Even in its passive hours. 

Behold it roam. 
With unseal'd eye and wide unfolded wing, 
While the tired body sleeps. Immortal guest ! 
Our earthly nature bows itself to thee, 
Pressing its ear of flesh unto the sigh 
Of thy perturbed visions, if perchance 
It hear some murmur of thy birth divine, 
Thy deathless heritage. 

Ah ! dreams are dear 
To those whom waking life hath surfeited 
With dull monotony. When the long day 
Wends to its close, and stealthy evening steals, 
Like some lean miser, greedily to snatch 
Hope's wreath that morning gave, is it not sweet 
To close our eyelids, and to find the rose 
That hides no thorn, the gold that knows no rust, 
Scatter'd where'er we tread ? Is it not sweet 
To 'scape from stern reality, and glide 
Where'er wild fancy marks her fairy way 
Unlimited ? If adverse fortune make 
Our pillow stony, like the patriarch's bed 
At lonely Bethel, do not pitying dreams 
Plant a bright ladder for the angels' feet, 
And change our hard couch to the gate of Heaven, 

O 



158 DREAMS 

And feed our souls on manna, till they loathe 
Their household bread ? 

To traverse all unblamcd 
Broad realms, more bright than fabled Araby ; 
To hear unearthly music ; to inhale 
Ambrosial fragrance from the spicy groves 
That never fade ; to see the tyrant tomb 
Unlock its treasure-valve, and freely yield 
The loved, the lost, back to our glad embrace ; 
To catch clear glimpses of the streets of gold, 
And harpers harping mid the eternal hills, 
These are the pastimes vi^hich the mind doth take 
While its poor clay companion slumbers deep, 
Weary and worn. 

If thou in wintry climes 
Shouldst exiled roam, thy very heart's blood chill'd, 
Lay but thy cold hand on a winged dream, 
And it shall bear thee straight with bounding pulse 
To drink the sunbeams of thine own blue skies. 
Where the young cottage children freely fill 
Their pinafores with flowers. 

Should ocean swell. 
Or the eternal mountains stretch their bars 
'Tween thee and thy loved home, how strangely sweet 
To touch the talisman of dreams, and sit 
Again on thine own sofa, hand in hand 
With the most loved, thy children near thy side 
At their untiring play, the shaded lamp 
Shedding its quiet beam, while now and then 
The clock upon the mantelpiece doth speak, 
To register the diamond sands of time, 
Made brighter by thy joys. 



DREAMS. 159 

So mayst thou hold 
Existence in two hemispheres, and be 
Happy in both ; yea, in each separate zone 
Have thine own castles, and revisit them 
Whene'er it pleaseth thee. 

But more than this : 
If thou wilt seek the fellowship of dreams, 
And fearless yield thee to their loving sway, 
And make them friends, they'll swiftly bear thee up 
From star to star, and let thee hear the rush 
Of angel- wings, upon God's errands speeding ; 
And, while they make some silver cloud thy car, 
Will whispering tell thee that the unslumbering soul 
Wears immortality upon its crest, 
And, by its very power to soar with them, 
Proves that it cannot die. 



WIFE OF A MISSIONARY AT HER HUSBAND'S 
GRAVE. 



There was a new-made grave, 

On a far heathen shore, 
Where lonely slept a man of God, 

His mission-service o'er ; 
There, when the setting sun 

Had tinged the west with flame, 
A tender infant in her arms, 

A mournful woman came. 

Her youthful cheek was pale, 

Her fair form bending low, 
As thus upon the fitful gale 

She pour'd her plaint of wo : 
" Friend of my inmost soul, 

The turf is on thy breast. 
And here amid the stranger's land 

Thy precious dust must rest. 

" Our helpless babe I bring. 

Who knew no father's love. 
Nor look'd upon this world of pain 

Till thou hadst risen above ; 
I lay him on thy bed, 

Unconscious tears to weep. 
Before our last farewell we take, 

And dare the faithless deep. 



WIFE OF A MISSIONARY, ETC. 161 

" Oh, when the mountain wave 

Shall be our venturous path, 
And the loud midnight tempest howls 

In terror and in wrath, 
Thy manly arm no more 

My dearest prop must be, 
Nor thy strong counsel nerve my soul 

To brave the raging sea. 

" But if our native coast 

Once more these feet should tread, 
And thou, the life of all my joys, 

Be absent with the dead. 
While each remember'd scene 

Shall with thine image glow, 
And friend and parent name thy name. 

How shall I bear the wo ? 

" Is it thy voice, my love, 

That bids me bear the rod, 
And stay my desolated heart 

Upon the widow's God ? 
Say'st thou, when every ray 

Of hope is quench'd and dim. 
The widow and the fatherless 

May put their trust in Him ? 

" How bless'd that Word Divine, 

On which my soul relies. 
The resurrection of the just, 

The union in the skies !" 
02 



162 WIFE OF A MISSIONARY, ETC. 

Faith came with heavenly light, 
Her struggling grief to quell. 

And in the holy words of prayer 
She spake her last farewell. 



SABBATH MEDITATIONS. 



Toss'd on the angry deep, with riven sails, 

The bark, long struggling 'gainst the tempest's wrath, 

Meets the rich perfume breathed from land-born gales, 
And skims more lightly o'er her billowy path ; 

While the glad sailor marks the misty line 

Where his loved native hills the blue horizon join. 

Spent, on his broken raft, the swimmer lies, 
A noteless speck mid ocean's stormy spray, 

While round his head the shrieking seagull flies, 
And warns her comrades of the expected prey ; 

See ! see ! the lifeboat ! Lo, its deck he gains, 

And mid protecting friends forgets his fearful pains. 

The traveller, faint amid the desert sands. 
Thinks of his native clime with bitter tear. 

Fast by his side his drooping camel stands, 
Hark to the cry of hope ! a fountain near ! 

A green oasis mid the burning plain, 

And 'neath the palm-tree shade he dreams of home again. 

And art not thou, O glorious Sabbath morn, 

A lifeboat to the outcast on the main ? 
A sight of home to mariner forlorn ? 

A sound of waters mid the burning plain ? 



164 SABBATH MEDITATIONS. 

Bear to my soul thy blessing from on high, 

That dayspring of our God whose beams shall never die. 

With holy words of psalmist and of seer, 

With penitential prayers in secret born. 
With chant and worship of the temple dear, 

Come thou to me, O consecrated morn ; 
Descend and touch devotion's slumbering chord, 
And tell to listening faith the rising of her Lord. 

Yes, raise me o'er the dust and care of life, 

A little way towards that celestial seat, 
Where, freed for aye from vanity and strife. 

The "just made perfect" in communion meet ; 
Show me their vestments gleaming from the sky. 
Pour through heaven's opening gate their echoed minstrelsy, 

And I will thank thee, though to earth I turn. 
And all too soon from thy bless'd precepts stray. 

Though in my breast its fever-thirst should burn, 
And storm or shipwreck daunt my venturous way. 

Still will I grasp thee as a golden chain, 

And bind thee to my heart until we meet again. 



THE SACRED POET. 



Art thou a mouth for the immortal mind 1 
A voice that shall be heard when ages sleep 
In cold oblivion 1 when the rich man's pomp, 
And all the ambitious strivings of the crowd 
Shall be forgotten 1 Art thou well convinced 
That such a gift is thine ? 

Bow thee to dust, 

And take this honour from the hand of God 
In deep humility, worm as thou art. 
And all unworthy. Ask for naught beside, 
Though worldlings scorn thy lot. 

Prosperity, 

Such as earth names, what are its gauds to thee? 

AccustomM to the crystal and the gold 

Of poesy, that, like a sea of glass. 

Doth compass thee around. Look up ! look up ! 

Baptized and set apart for Heaven's high will, 

Search for its lessons. List when trembling dawn 

Instructs Aurora ; muse when night to night 

Doth show forth knowledge ; when the folded flower 

Taketh its lesson of the dews that steal 

Into its bosom, like the mother's hymn 

O'er the tired infant ; and thine ear shall drink 

A musictone to solace every wound 

That earth has made. 

Then strike thy hallow'd harp 

For unborn ages, and with trumpet-tone 



166 THE SACRED POET. 

Wake the immortal mind to highest hopes, 
And be the teacher of what cannot die. 
Yea, wear thy birthright nobly on thy brow, 
And nerve the wing for God. 



THE MAY-FLOWER.* 



A SPECK amid the ocean, 

A laden bark draws near, 
Through her rent sails the bleak winds moan, 

All heavily and drear ; 
No light upon the headlands 

Illumes her dangerous way. 
No pilot.boat all fearless glides 

Like sea-bird o'er the spray. 

Slow, towards a sterile region, 

With pain she seems to steer, 
No hoarded treasures in her breast. 

To grasping avarice dear ; 
Yet many a noble galleon. 

Where Indian jewels sleep. 
Might pave old ocean's glittering floor, 

Without a loss so deep. 

No broad flag proudly waveth, 

No banner from her mast, 
But many a princely argosy 

Might feel the wrecking blast ; 

* The name of the vessel from which the Pilgrim-fathers first landed at 
Plymouth, in December, 1620. 



168 THE MAY-FLOWER. 

Or, crush'd by battle-thunders, sink 
'Neath whelming waters dark, 

Yet leave no chasm on History's page, 
Like yon forsaken bark. 

Oh, May-Flower ! stricken May-Flower ! 

So scourged by Winter's wrath, 
What bear'st thou to this chilling clime, 

Along thy billowy path ? 
And the May-Flower boldly answer'd. 

As towards the shore she drew, 
" Seed for a nation of the free, 

Unhlenching souls and true." 

Hoarse voices from the wilderness 

Spake out when storms were high, 
" Were there no graves beyond the main, 

That here ye come to die ?" 
But sweetly on the Sabbath breeze 

An answering anthem peal'd, 
" Our leader is the Lord of Hosts, 

Our fortress and our shield." 

Down sank the ancient forest, 

And up the roof-tree sprang, 
The tall corn ripen'd on the lea, 

The soldier's watchword rang ; 
Gaunt Famine, like a hungry wolf. 

Was stoutly held at bay. 
And the mother luU'd her wailing babe 

With England's holy lay. 



I 



THE MAY-FLOWER. 169 

Rich was each lowly cabin 

In the strong trust of prayer, 
A heaven-born might to brave the lot 

Of poverty and care ; 
So now a glorious nation 

Doth rise in solemn state, 
To bless that lonely May-Flower, 

With all her Pilgrim-freight. 

New-England's lofty mountains 

Bow low their leafy crest, 
In homage to the swelling bay 

That gave the May-Flower rest, 
In homage to the rugged rock 

That stretch'd a wintry hand, 
And welcomed to its snow-clad breast 

The fathers of our land. 

But thou, O Rock of Plymouth, 

Like him of old, who lent 
To stranger and wayfaring men 

The shelter of his tent. 
Saw not, beneath the homely garb, 

With clear, prophetic eyes, 
Nor through the strangers' vestment scann'd 

The angel in disguise. 
P 



THE TULIP AND EGLANTINE. 



The Tulip call'd to the Eglantine : 

" Good neighbour, I hope you see 
How the throngs that visit the garden come 

To pay their respects to me : 
The florist admires my elegant robe, 

And praises its rainbow ray, 
7'ill it seems as if through his raptured eyes 

He was gazing his soul away." 

" It may be so," said the Eglantine ; 

" In a humble nook I dwell, 
And what is passing among the great 

I cannot know so well ; 
But they speak of me as the flower of Love, 

And that low, whisper'd name. 
Is dearer to me and my infant buds 

Than the loudest breath of fame." 



THE DYING MOTHER. 



" How sweet to gaze upon thy placid brow, 
My child ! my child ! like some unfolding bud 
Of stainless snow-drop. Ah, how sweet to catch 
Thy gentle breath upon my cheek, and feel 
The bright redundance of thy silken hair. 
My beautiful first-born. Life seems more fair 
Since thou art mine. How soon amid its flowers 
Thy little feet will gambol by my side, 
My own pet-lamb. And then to train thee up 
To be an angel, and to live for God — 
O glorious hope !" 

Fast fell the tears of joy 
As the young mother spake. 

But deep within, 
A foe was busy at the seat of life, 
And other language than her own fond hopes 
Was traced by dire disease. A hollow voice 
In midnight visions warn'd her of the tomb. 
The surge roU'd heavy, yet there was a Rock 
On which her soul found rest when the frail flesh 
Wasted away. 

" The cup my Father gives. 
Shall I not drink it ?" 

So she bow'd her down, 
While the new tie that bound her to the earth 
So tenderly, was cut — then stretched her hand 



172 THE DYING MOTHER. 

To the Redeemer, whom in days of youth 

She served and honour'd, and went home — went home, 

— And now, Heaven bless thee, babe, whose tiny bark 

Is launch'd so lonely on this tossing sea 

Of time and change ; and mid thy future course, 

If here, in our dark clime, thy years unfold. 

Bind her fair image to thy loving heart, 

My little one, and let thy father hear 

From thy young lips the same rejoicing words 

Of piety and peace, which thrill'd his heart 

With grateful prayer when at his fireside sat 

The chosen idol of his early love. 



I 



THE TREE OF LOVE. 



Beside the dear, domestic bower, 
There sprang a tree of healing power ; 
Its leaflets, damp with gentle rain. 
Could sooth or quell the pang of pain ; 
And 'neath its shade a maiden grew. 
She shared its fruit, she drank its dew. 

Oft at her side a youth was seen, 
With glance of love and noble mien ; 
At twilight hour a favourM guest, 
Her trembling hand he warmly press'd ; 
At length, with guileless heart and free, 
She said, " I'll plant that tree for thee." 

Her little brother climb'd her knee : 
" You must not go away from me ; 
The nightly prayer with me you say, 
And sooth me when I'm tired of play :" 
His sister's eye with tears was dim : 
She said, " I'll plant that tree for him." 

" Its roots are deep," the mother said ; 
" Beyond the darkling grave they spread :" 
" Thy hand is weak," the father cried ; 
" Too young thou art to be a bride." 
Serene she spake, " I look above 
For strength to plant the tree of love." 
P 2 



174 THE TREE OF LOVE. 

Before the holy priest she stooa, 
Her fair cheek dy'd with rushing blood ; 
And as, with hands to heaven display'd, 
Strong vows upon her soul he laid, 
Her heaving breast, like fluttering bird, 
Her snowy mantle wildly stirr'd. 

But when the hallow'd cirque of gold, 
Of deathless love the promise told, 
Mysterious power her spirit felt, 
And at the altar's foot she knelt : 
" My God, my God, I'll cling to thee, 
And plant for him that blessed tree.'* 

Around their home its branches spread. 
Its buds she nursed, its root she fed ; 
Though flaunting crowds, with giddy look. 
Of toil so meek slight notice took. 
Yet hovering angels mark'd with pride 
The green tree of the blessed bride. 



THE LAST SONG. 



" Sing to me love, thy voice is sweet ! 

It falls upon my ear 
Like summer-gales o'er breathing flowers, 

And makes even sickness dear ; 
Sing to me, love, the hour is meet, 

This twilight hour serene, 
Too dim to let officious care 

Intrude high thoughts between. 

Sing to me, love, the time is short, 

I feel my strength decay, 
The ties that bound my soul so fast 

Melt like a dream away." 
She sang to cheer his pensive mood 

A deep and tuneful strain. 
The changeless bliss of heaven how pure, 

And earthly joys how vain. 

At first, all tremulous and faint, 

Awoke the warbling tone. 
Then clearer, higher rose, and caught 

An ardour not its own ; 
Strength, strength, as for an hour of need, 

As if her lip were made 
The harp on which some spirit-hand 

Celestial measures play'd. 



176 THE LAST SONG. 

It ceased, and from the casement near 

The curtain's fold she drew, 
And the young moon mid bowering leaves 

Look'd lone and peaceful through ; 
Where was the sigh of tender praise ? 

Love's ne'er forgotten word ? 
Sleeps he 1 How pale ! Alas, no breath 

Her sweeping tresses stirr'd. 

A cry broke forth. He heeds it not ! 

Young wife, thy lot was blest. 
To charm the pang of mortal pain, 

And sing him to his rest ; 
Entranced the listening spirit soar'd 

Heavenward on balmy air, 
And pass'd from love and music Aere, 

To love and music ihere^ 



THE MOURNER COMFORTED. 



" My boy was beautiful, and he is dead ! 
Oh, speak no more to me. The voice of man 
Grates on my ear, for I would be alone — 
Alone, to weep." 

Long flow'd that mourner's tears, 
But then beside the Bible she knelt down. 
And laid her cheek upon its hallow'd page. 
And said, " God comfort me." 

And as she closed 
The fervent prayer, methought a still small voice 
Bade the swoln surges of her soul be still. 
That He who walk'd upon Tiberias' lake, 
Ruling the midnight storm, might thither come, 

And save from shipwreck. 

Then, with pang subdued, 

Her heart went wandering to her loved one's grave, 

Marking in every bud that blossom'd there. 

In every joyous butterfly that spread 

Its radiant wing amid the flowers, a type 

Of glorious resurrection. Every drop 

Of dew that sparkled on the turf-clad mound 

Seem'd holy to her. Even the bitter grief 

That made the parting hour so desolate. 

Put on the robe of humble faith, and said, 

" 'Tis well, my Lord, well with the little one 

That dwells with thee." 



178 THE MOURNER COMFORTED. 

And then methought she heard 
A sound of heavenly harpings, and beheld 
Celestial gleamings of cherubic wings, 
And mid the song of ransom'd infancy 
Unto its Saviour, caught the tuneful voice 
Of her own cherish'd nursling. 

So her lip 
Join'd in deep praise. For how could she forbear 
To thank her God for him who ne'er should taste 
Of trouble more ? 

Was it his tender tone 
That whisper'd, as she lay that night in dreams, 
" Oh, mother, weep no more ; but with a heart 
Of holy love, hold on thy Christian path. 
And come to me. For He who took on earth 
Young children to his arms, will bid in heaven 
The mother find her babe. So keep thine eye 
Clear from the grief-cloud, for the time is short. 
The way is plain : dear mother, come to me." 



ART THOU A CHRISTlANI 



Art thou a Christian ? Though thy cot 
Be rude, and poverty thy lot, 
A wealth is thine which earth denies, 
A treasure boundless as the skies ; 
Gold and the diamond fade with shame, 
Before thy casket's deathless flame ; 
Heir of high heaven ! how canst thou sigh 
For gilded dross and vanity ? 

Art thou a Christian, doom'd to roam 
Far from thy friends and native home ? 
O'er trackless wilds uncheer'd to go. 
With none to share an exile's wo ? 
Where'er thou find'st a Father's care, 
Thy country and thy home are there : 
How canst thou, then, a stranger be, 
Surrounded by His family ? 

Art thou a Christian, mid the strife 

Of years mature and burden'd life 1 

Thy heaven-born faith its shield shall spread 

To guard thee in the hour of dread ; 

Thorns mid thy flinty path may spring, 

Dire Pain inflict its scorpion sting, 

But in thy soul a beacon-light 

Shall guide thy pilgrim steps aright. 

And balm from God's own fountain flow 

To heal the wounds of earthly wo. 



A NAME. 



" Let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad." — Genesis, xi., 4. 

Make to thyself a name, 

Not with a breath of clay, 
Which, like the broken, hollow reed, 

Doth sigh itself away ; 
Not with the fame that vaunts 

The tyrant on his throne. 
And hurls its stigma on the soul 

That God vouchsafes to own. 

Make to thyself a name. 

Nor such as wealth can weave, 
Whose warp is but a thread of gold, 

That dazzles to deceive ; 
Not with the tints of Love 

Form out its letters fair. 
That scroll within thy hand shall fade 

Like him who placed it there. 

Make to thyself a name, 

Not in the sculptured aisle. 
The marble oft betrays its trust, 

Like Egypt's lofty pile ; 
But ask of Him who quell'd 

Of death, the victor. strife. 
To write it on the blood-bought page 

Of everlasting life. 



11 



LAST WORDS OF AN INDIAN CHIEF. 



" He Cometh ! Death is here. Leave me alone ! 
Hence ! hence ! Ye shall not see me when I die, 
If die I must. I would not that the men 
Whom I have led to battle saw me yield 
To any conqueror. Shall my warriors hear 
From this undaunted breast the gasp or groan 
As when a woman dies? 

'* How cold the dew 
Starts o'er my temples ! Wipe it not away. 
Shame on your tears ! Leave me alone with Death ! 
For I will meet him as a brave man should, 
And hurl defiance at him. 

" What is this ? 
Ha ! He hath smote the lion ! Was it well 
To steal upon me in my unarm'd bed, 
Most potent enemy ? How hast thou cut 
The nerve of that strong arm, which used to cleave 
The proudest foeman like the sapling spray ! 
Oh friends ! the dimness of the grave doth steal 
Over those eyes, that as the eagle dared 
The noontide sunbeam. Let me hear your voice 
Once more ! once more ! 

" In vain ! The ear is seal'd 
Which caught the rustle of the lightest leaf 
Where the close ambush lay. Come back ! come back ! 
Hear my last bidding, friends ! Lay not my bones 
Q 



182 LAST WORDS OF AN INDIAN CHIEF. 

Near any white man's bones. Let not his hand 
Touch my clay pillow, nor his hateful voice 
Sing burial hymns for me. Rather than dwell 
In Paradise with him, my soul would choose 
Eternal darkness and the undying worm. 
Ho ! heed my words, or else my wandering shade 
Shall haunt ye with its curse !" 

And so he died, 
That pagan chief; the last strong banner-staff 
Of the poor Senecas. No more the flash 
Of his wild eloquence shall fire their ranks 
To mortal combat. His distorted brow. 
And the stern grapple when he sank in death, 
Sadly they grave upon their orphan hearts, 
As to their rude homes in the forest glade 
Mournful they turn'd. 



SLEEPING CHILD. 



Sleep, dearest, long and sweet, 

With smile upon thy brow, 
Thy restless, tottering feet 

Are surely weary now, 
Trotting about all day 

Upon the nursery-floor, 
Or happier still to play 
Among the wild-flowers gay 

Beside thy father's door. 

Thy little laughing eyes. 

How tranquilly they rest, 
Thy tiny fingers clasp'd 

Upon thy guiltless breast. 
While o'er thy placid face 

The stealing moonbeams fall. 
And with a heaven-taught grace 
Thy baby features trace 

Upon the shaded wall. 

Sleep, dearest ! She whose ear 
Her nursing-infant's sigh 

Hath never waked to hear 

When midnight's hush was nigh, 



184 SLEEPING CHILD. 

Ne'er felt its balmy kiss 

The cradle-care repay, 
Hath she not chanced to miss 
The deepest, purest bliss 

That cheers life's pilgrim-way ? 

To see each budding power 

Thy Maker's goodness bless, 
To catch the manna-shower 

Of thy full tenderness, 
The immortal mind to train — 

No more divine employ 
Thy mother seeks to gain, 
Until her spirit drain 

The seraph cup of joy. 



GEMINI. 



Twins of the heavenly house, how fair 
Your guerdons to our planet are ! 

Skies ye paint of richest blue, 
And where the daisy's eye is found 
Peeping from the moisten'd ground, 

Ye lead those crystal waters through 
Which old Aquarius bound. 
The winged tenants of the grove 
Greet ye with a song of love, 
As mid the green boughs, void of fear, 
Their chambers soft and warm they rear 
Hovers round each blooming stalk 

The bee, with nectar fill'd, 
And ants within the garden walk 

Their cone-roof 'd cities build. 

Sounds from every rippling shore 
Speak the reign of winter o'er, 
Shouting boys, with mirthful note, 
Gayly launch the tiny boat. 
And the new-fledged ducklings play 
On their oary-footed way, 
And when Evening dims the lake, 
Frogs their hoarse orchestra wake, 
And the tortoise loves to tell. 
Peering from his mottled shell, 
Q2 



186 GEMINI. 

'Tween the water and the land, 
Tales his comrades understand. 

Starry twins ! your earliest ray 

England's merry rustics hail, 
Round the Maypole circling gay 

In the primrose-scented vale. 
Every cottage sends its pride, 
Youth, or maid, or recent bride, 

To the thronging village plain, 
While the matron, mid her care, 
In her daughter's beauty rare. 

Lives her triumphs o'er again. 
E'en that much-enduring race,* 
Who upon the darken'd face 
Bear the symbol of their state, 
Outcast and unfortunate, 
Seem to hope and freedom born 
On young May's propitious morn. 
And throughout the toil-worn year, 
Climbing high in chimney drear, 
Guard the memory, sadly gay, 
Of their lonely holyday. 

Ancient Rome, with festive rite, 
Hailed ye, glittering twins of light, 
And the wreaths of Flora cast. 
Where your blended footsteps past. 
Classic Greece, with legends hoar, 
Link'd her lineage to your lore, 

* The chimney-sweep boys, who in London have their holyday on the 
fi rst of May. 



GEMINI. 187 

Pointing with her haughty hand 
To the Argonautic band, 
Who to win the fleece of gold 
Dared the seas with Jason bold. 

But from your refulgent urn 
To a higher source we turn ; 
To Him who, with a shepherd's care, 
Arcturus feeds in fields of air, 
Rules Orients wrath, and sees 
The duly marshall'd Pleiades. 
Hath He not the zodiac's bound 
Traced these azure skies around ? 
Bidding every season prove 
Changeless, unforgetful love, 
That by teachers so divine, 
Starry lessons, line on line, 
Man, the pupil of the sky. 

Might be taught with praise to glow, 
And the love that lights his eye. 

To his brother's heart to show ? 



TO A FRAGMENT OF COTTON. 



Methinks thou'rt indestructible. At first 
But the slight remnant of a spruce cravat, 
Thou cam'st unbidden to my premises, 
And then the baby tore thee, and the dog 
Did munch thee in a corner, where he play'd ; 
Next thou wert hanging at the housemaid's broom, 
Yet here thou art, for all. 

Hast e'er a tongue 1 
No doubt. The veriest triflers oft can boast 
Great store of words. If thou hast aught to say, 
I'll be a listener. Tell me of thy birth. 
And all thy strange mutations, since the dow 
Of infancy was on thee, to thine hour 
Of finish'd beauty 'neath the shuttle's skill. 

So, thou wert known in history ! and thy sire 

The sounding name of Sir Gossypium bore. 

He was a younger brother of the fleece, 

And of the flax of Egypt, and the silk 

Which the poor spinning. worm doth die to make 

A present of, to those who thank her not. 

Thy race have multiplied exceedingly. 

And sown themselves in every sunny zone 

Of both the hemispheres. The planter's hand. 

Well pleased, doth play about their thickening beard 

When its young promise tints the ripen'd cheek. 



TO A FRAGMENT OF COTTON. 189 

Thy name is mention'd where the merchants meet, 

And Commerce loves thee well. Yea, thou dost make 

Much clamour in the world, with thundering crash 

Of water-wheel, and loom, and steaming smoke 

From coal-fed chimneys, fusing to the skies 

With blacken'd breath. Yet mid thy vassal throng 

Of toiling artisans, 'tis sad to see 

Such troops of little ones, with pallid cheek, 

Fielding their joyous birthright at thy shrine, ' 

And all sweet intercourse with fields and flowers, 

That glads the peasant's child. 

'Twere hard to count 
Thy many transmigrations, or to keep 
Tithe of the dramas where thou dost enact 
Most changeful parts. Thou in the vessel's hold 
Dost slumber heavily, in ponderous bales, 
Like precious ingots, or with winged sail 
Impel its trackless journey o'er the deep, 
Or, closely furl'd, embrace the groaning mast 
That crouches to the tempest. Thou dost stoop, 
With garment coarse, to wrap the labouring kind, 
And deck the country-dame in Sunday-gown 
Of ample-flower'd and many-colour'd chints. 
Or, slow emerging from the Indian loom. 
Light as the texture of a dreamy thought. 
Veil the fair bride, and drape the throned queen. 
With man thou art when to the dust he goes. 
And in thy snowy shroud dost fold his brow 
When friend and lover have forsaken him. 

But yet thou hast a higher ministry 

Of kindliness, and, when thou well hast served 



190 TO A FRAGMENT OF COTTON. 

His body's need, dost turn thy hand and touch 
The ethereal mind. Yea, when thou seem'st to die. 
Thou only dropp'st thy grosser elements 
To commune with the soul. 

Mysterious Guest ! 
I seem to fear thee. Would that I had known 
Thy lineage better, and been less remiss 
In the good grace of hospitality. 
I much bemoan myself that thou shouldst be 
So treated in my house. With reverent hand 
And genuflection, I do take thee up. 
And straight bespeak for thee more fitting place 
Mid thy compeers. 

But who can say what form 
Thou next may'st wear ? 

Perchance the pictured page 
Through which the lisping and delighted child 
Hath its first talk with knowledge, or the chart 
That saves the mariner mid rocks and shoals 
Upon the wrecking sea. 

Or lov'st thou best 
To be the tablet of the sage ? or bear 
The bard's rich music to another age ? 
Or with some message from the Book of Life, 
Wake the dead slumber of benighted lands 1 



THE BEAUTIFUL CHILD. 



Fair child, whose gem of genius burn'd 
In beauty's purest gold enshrined, 

On whom the eye of strangers turn'd 
With wonder and delight combined, 

Whose tender, tuneful voice doth keep 
Fresh echo while long seasons roll, 

As music, though the lute-strings sleep. 
Still lingereth in the master's soul, 

We will not say how early fled ! 

Nor, darkly murmuring, mark thy date. 
Though Grief's most bitter tear be shed, 

And home's fond temple desolate ; 

For life is long that fills the round 

Which Heaven's own finger brightly traced. 
And many a form that age hath crown'd 

Must leave that circle unembraced. 

But thine eternal life, how blest ! 

O let its radiant image be 
A watch-light in the parents' breast, 

Till joyful they ascend to thee. 



THE THREE LITTLE GRAVES. 



I SOUGHT at twilight's pensive hour 

The path which mourners tread, 
Where many a marble fane reveals 

The City of the Dead ; 
The City of the Dead, where all 

From feverish toil repose, 
"While round their homes the simple flower 

In sweet profusion blows. 

And there I mark'd a pleasant spot. 

Enclosed with tender care, 
Where, side by side, three infants lay, 

The only tenants there ; 
Nor weed nor bramble raised its head 

To mar the hallow'd scene. 
And doubtless 'twas a mother's tear 

That kept the turf so green. 

The eldest was a gentle girl. 

She sank as rose-buds fall. 
And then her baby brothers came, 

They were their parents' all. 
Their parents' all ! Ah ! think how deep 

The wail of sickness rose, 
Ere, 'neath these solitary mounds, 

They found a long repose. 



THE THREE LITTLE GRAVES. 193 

Their cradle-sports beside the hearth, 

At winter's eve, are o'er, 
Their tuneful tones, so full of mirth. 

Delight the ear no more ; 
Yet still their thrilling memory lives. 

And many a lisping sound. 
And sweetly broken phrase doth steal 

The sorrowing heart around. 

Three little graves ! Three little graves ! 

Come hither, ye who see 
Your blooming babes around you smile, 

A blissful company, 
And of those childless mourners think 

With sympathizing pain, 
And sooth them with a Saviour's words, 

"Your dead shall rise again." 
R 



TO A GOOSE. 



I CANNOT bear to hear thee slander'd, Goose ! 
It irketh me to see the truant boys 
Pause in their play, and cast a stone at thee, 
And call thee foolish. 

Do those worthies know 
That when old Rome had let the ruffian Gauls 
Tread on her threshold of vitality, 
And all her sentinels were comatose. 
Thy charion-call did save her ? Mighty strange 
To call thee fool ! 

I think thou'rt dignified 
And portly in thy bearing, and in all 
The duties and proprieties of life 
Art quite a pattern. Yet the duck may quack. 
The turkey gabble, and the guinea-hen 
Keep up a piercing and perpetual scream. 
And all is well ; but if thou ope thy beak, 
" Fie, silly creature /" 

Yet I'm sure thou'st done 
Many a clever and obliging deed ; 
And more than this, thou from thy wing dost spare 
An outcast feather, which hath woke the world, 
And made it wiser. 

Yea, the modest quill 
Doth take its quiet stand behind the press, 
And, like a prompter, tell it what to say. 



TO A GOOSE. 195 

But yet we never praise the goose, who gave 
This precious gift. Yet what can fill its place ? 
Think of the clumsy stylus, how absurd ! 
I know, indeed, that smart metallic pens 
Have undertook to speculate at large, 
But I eschew them all, and prophesy 
Goose-quills will be immortal, as the art 
To which they minister. 'Tvvere meet for me, 
Though all beside were dumb, to fondly laud 
The instrument that from my childhood up 
Hath been my solace and my chosen friend 
In hours of loneliness. 

I'd fain propose 
That, mid the poultry in the farmer's yard. 
The goose should wear a ducal coronet. 
But our republic would not authorize 
Aught like an order of nobility ; 
And so I institute a simple claim 
For justice long withheld. I ask my peers, 
The erudite and learned in the law. 
Why the recusant owl is singled out 
As Wisdom's bird ? If blind Mythology, 
Who on her fingers scarcely knew to count 
Her thirty thousand gods, should groping make 
Such error, 'tis not strange. But we, who skill 
To ride the steam, and have a goodly hope 
To ride the lightning too, need we be ruled 
By vacillating Delphos ? or stand still 
To sanction her mistakes ? 

The aforesaid owl. 
With his dull, staring eyes, what hath he done 
To benefit mankind ? Moping all day 



196 TO A GOOSE. 

Amid some dodder'd oak, and then at night. 
With hideous hooting and wild flapping wings, 
Scaring the innocent child. What hath he done 
To earn a penny, or to make the world 
Richer in any way ? I doubt if he 
Even gets an honest living. Who can say 
Whether such midnight rambles, none know where, 
Are for his credit ? Yet the priceless crown 
Of wisdom he in symbol and in song 
Unrighteously hath worn. 

But times have changed. 
Most reverend owl ! Utility bears rule, 
And the shrewd spirit of a busy age 
Dotes not on things antique, nor pays respect 
To hoary hairs, but counts it loss of time 
To honour whatsoever fails to yield 
A fat per centage. Yet thou'rt not ashamed 
To live a gentleman, nor bronze thy claw 
With manual labour, stupidly content 
To be a burden on community. 

— Meantime, the worthy and hard-working goose 
Hath rear'd us goslings, fed us with her flesh, 
Lull'd us to sleep upon her softest down. 
And with her quills maintain'd the lover's lore. 
And saved the tinsel of the poet's brain. 
— Dear goose, thou'rt greatly wrong'd. 

I move the owl 
Be straightway taken from the usurper's seat, 
And thou forthwith be voted for, to fill 
Minerva's arm.s. 

The flourish of a pen 



TO A GOOSE. 197 

Hath saved or lost a realm, hath sign'd the bond 
That made the poor man rich — reft from the prince 
His confiscated wealth, and sent him forth 
A powerless exile — for the prisoner bade 
The sunbeam tremble through his iron bars 
The last, last time — or changed the cry of war 
To blessed peace. 

And yet we scorn the bird 
Whose cast-ofF feather hath done this, and more. 
R2 



ON HEARING SACRED MUSIC WELL PER- 
FORMED. 

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 



Came they, in vision to thy soul, 
They who the harps of heaven control, 
What time in infant slumbers thrown, 
The unform'd mind receives its tone ? 
Drank then thy tuneful lips their sigh 
Of deep, entrancing harmony. 
Unconscious of the balm it drew, 
Like rose-bud bathed in Hermon's dew 1 

— Or dwell'st thou to their hymning sphere, 

Than we of grosser clay, more near ? 

Inhaling that ethereal note 

Which on some lucid cloud may float. 

And wooing thence the warbled air, 

To cheat us of our earthly care ? 

— When thou to them at last shalt soar, 
Bright pupil of seraphic lore. 
No strange or occult thing to thee. 
The language of the skies must be. 
Who scann'd on earth its melody. 



SONNET. 



Pride, take thy mingled cup. The treacherous world 
Hath dregg'd it for thee, though her smile was bright ; 

Yea, when her lip with promised joy was curl'd, 
She falsely mingled myrrh and aconite ; 

And mid thy revels in thy lofty halls, 

A sever'd hand, with fingers pale and still, 

Wrote " Mene — Mene — Tekel" on thy walls, 
But yet repine not, thou hast had thy will ; 

The sparkling foam, from earth's enchantments born, 
Didst thou not choose it for thy daily draught ? 

And didst thou not the poor in spirit scorn, 

Who with unswerving step and chasten'd thought 

Held on the " narrow way," mid rock and thorn, 
And duly bow'd the knee unto the manger-born ? 



THE NEW-ENGLAND VILLAGE. 



Verdant and beautiful ! How fair thy vales ! 
With what a smile thy gentle river glides, 
While through the vale of interwoven boughs 
Thy peaceful dwellings pleasantly look forth. 
Yon hallow'd temple, crownM with snowy spire, 
Casts a lone shadow o'er the sacred spot 
Where sleeps the white-hair'd shepherd mid his flock, 
The loved of God and man. The statesman's head. 
With all its gather'd mass of curious lore, 
Lock'd up in marble ; and the soldier's arm, 
Strong for his country in her hour of need. 
Are here, too, 'neath the turf. And there, amid 
The lawns and gardens which their hands had dress'd, 
The ancient fathers, with their numerous race, 
Securely dwelt. 

Yon mansion hath a voice 
Of other days. Through the dim lapse of years 
And rule of strangers, still around its halls 
Flit cherish'd images of good old times. 
When hospitality, with grasp sincere. 
Led to her board the unexpected guest. 
And, careless of the pomp of proud array 
Or servitude of menials, warm'd the heart 
To social joy. 

I do remember, too. 
How in my early years yon dome sent forth 



THE NEW-ENGLAND VILLAGE. 201 

The daughter in her bridal loveliness, 
To wreathe fresh roses round a distant home, 
And stately sons, all strong and bold, to take 
Their untried portion in this tossing world. 
From thence the father to an honour'd grave 
Was borne ; and there the mother of the flock, 
Lovely and loved as in her day of bloom, 
Sank meekly on her couch to rise no more ; 
And the sweet haunts of her sweet ministry 
Have lost her name forever. Yet the vine 
That gadding round her nursery- window climb'd, 
Still lives unnurtured ; and methinks its leaves 
Thrill with the lore of hoarded memories, 
Pleasant, yet mournful. 

But that ancient race, 
With whom our heart's deep reverence dwelt so long, 
Methinks at such an hour they seem to stand 
Again among us, even more palpably 
Than those we call the living. Wait we not 
At hush of eve for them ? dreaming we hear 
Their footsteps in the rustle of the leaves, 
Or their low whisper, warning us to seek 
A home not made with hands ? 

So may it be ; 
And to that home eternal every one 
Who here were rapt in the frank fellowship 
Of simpler days, and mourn its loss with tears, 
Be gather'd, where no more the blight of ill, 
Or fear of change, or sigh of pain shall steal 
O'er the pure mingling of congenial souls. 



LAURA BRIDGMAN, 

THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL, AT THE INSTITUTION FOR 
THE BLIND IN BOSTON. 



Where is the light that to the eye 
Heaven's holy message gave. 

Tinging the retina with rays 

From sky, and earth, and wave ? 

Where is the sound that to the soul 
Mysterious passage wrought, 

And strangely made the moving lip 
A harp-string for the thought ? 

All fled ! all lost ! Not even the rose 

An odour leaves behind. 
That, like a broken reed, might trace 

The tablet of the mind. 

That mind ! It struggles with its fate. 

The anxious conflict, see ! 
As if through Bastile-bars it sought 

Communion with the free. 

Yet still its prison-robe it wears 

Without a prisoner's pain. 
For happy childhood's beaming sun 

Glows in each bounding vein. 



LAURA BRIDGMAN. 203 

And bless'd Philosophy is near, 

In Christian armour bright, 
To scan the subtlest clew that leads 

To intellectual light. 

Say, lurks there not some ray of heaven 

Amid thy bosom's night, 
Some echo from a better land. 

To make the smile so bright ? 

The lonely lamp in Greenland cell, 

Deep 'neath a world of snow, 
Doth cheer the loving household group 

Though none beside may know ; 

And, sweet one, doth our Father's hand 

Place in thy casket dim 
A radiant and peculiar lamp, 

To guide thy steps to Him ? 



DEATH OF A FRIEND. 



It is not when the good obey 

The summons of their God, 
And meekly take the narrow couch 

Beneath the burial sod, 
That keenest anguish pours its wail, 

Despairing o'er their rest, 
For praise should mingle with the pang 

That wrings the mourner's breast. 

It is not when the saint departs, 

Whose wealth was hid on high. 
That bitterest tears of grief should gush 

From sad bereavement's eye ; 
For in the consummation blest 

Of every wish and prayer. 
He to his Father's courts ascends. 

And finds a mansion there. 

But yet, oh friend, revered and blest. 

Who from our arms this day 
Hast risen to gain thy perfect rest 

In realms of cloudless day, 
Though faith reveals thee to our view 

From every sorrow free. 
How shall we check the bursting tear 

That wildly flows for thee ? 



DEATH OF A FRIEND. 205 

Self-sacrificing, upright, pure. 

Of feeble hope the guide. 
With judgment clear, a soul subdued. 

And wealth without its pride, 
The widow in her lowly cell 

Must long thy loss deplore. 
The orphans wait thy step in vain. 

Thou com'st to them no more. 

The path of duty and of zeal. 

Who now, like thee, shalt tread ? 
And deeply for ourselves we mourn 

That thou art of the dead. 
S 



TRUE WISDOM. 



" So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto 
wisdom."— David. 

Why break the limits of permitted thought 

To revel in Elysium ? thou who bear'st 

Still the stern yoke of this unresting Hfe, 

Its toils, its hazards, and its fears of change ? 

Why hang thy frostwork wreath on Fancy's brow, 

When Labour warns thee to thy daily task. 

And Faith doth bid thee gird thyself to run 

A faithful journey to the gate of Heaven ? 

Up, 'tis no dreaming-time ! awake ! awake ! 
For He who sits on the High Judge's seat 
Doth in his record note each wasted hour. 
Each idle word. Take heed thy shrinking soul 
Find not their weight too heavy when it stands 
At that dread bar from whence is no appeal. 
For while we trifle the light sand steals on. 
Leaving the hour-glass empty. So thy life 
Glideth away. Stamp wisdom on its hours. 



THE MOTHER SUMMONED. 



" The feast of life is sweet, 

I am no weary guest, 
Loving friends my presence greet. 
And all that charms the eye or ear. 
Taste to please, or heart to cheer. 
Earth, sky, and ocean gather here — 

God's care be blest. 

'Tis scarce the hour of prime, 
But how the sands of Time 

Steal fast away ! 
Yet till cool evening falls 
With lamplight on the walls — 

I fain would stay. 

If this be long and late. 

Oh Thou ! who mark'st our date, 

Till twilight's ray 
I'd love to linger here. 
Guiding my children dear 

Their pilgrim- way ; 

Watching their minds unfold, 
Rich with unrusting gold 

Of knowledge stored, 
Till each his manly seat 
Shall take, in concord sweet, 

Around life's board." 



208 THE MOTHER SUMMONED. 

The Master call'd ! the mother heard : 
" Come hither r^ was the solemn word. 

Bright shone the noonday sun, 
The undrain'd cup still glow'd with sparkling zest. 
She clasp'd her pure hands o'er her breast, 
" Thy will he done" 

In the fresh summer of her years 
She kiss'd away her nursling's tears, 
And laid him, luU'd to quiet rest, 
Upon her blooming daughter's breast. 

Pain probed her nerves to Torture's pang, 
The fibrous heart-strings rent and rang, 
Yet peace, that of her soul was part, 
Look'd through her eye, and foil'd the dart 

That rankled there. 
And Faith the Saviour's image drew. 
Wiping away the deathful dew 

With words of prayer. 

On a high arm and strong. 

Her soul its burden cast, 
While soaring, soaring high, 
The weakness of mortality 
Fell like a dried leaf on the blast, 
And with a conqueror's song 

Heaven's gate she pass'd. 



PARTING. 



Not of the boisterous wave, 
Not of the tempest's power, 

Not of the rent and cleaving bark, 
Speak at this sacred hour. 

God of the trusting soul ! 

God of the traveller, hear ! 
And from our parting cup of love 

Wring out these dregs of fear. 

Art thou a God at home, 

Where the bright fireside smiles, 
And not abroad, upon the deep, 

Mid danger's deadliest wiles 1 

What though the eyes so dear 

To distant regions turn. 
Their tender language in our hearts 

Like vestal flame shall burn. 

What though the voice beloved 
Respond not to our pain, 

We'll shut its music in the soul 
Until we meet again. 
S2 



210 PARTING. 

Farewell ! we're travellers all, 
With one bless 'd goal in view, 

One rest, one everlasting home, 
Sweet friend, a sweet adieu ! 



THE DEEP. 



I FAIN would be thy pupil, mighty Deep ! 
Yet speak thou gently to me, for I fear 
Thy lifted terror, and I would not learn 
The lesson that doth make the mariner 
So deadly pale. 

My mother Earth doth teach 
An easy lore. She likes to speak of man. 
Her levell'd mountains and her cultured vales, 
Town, tower, and temple, and triumphal arch, 
All speak of man, and moulder while they speak. 
But of whose architecture and design 
Tell thine eternal fountains, when they rise 
To combat with the clouds, or when they fall ? 
Of whose strong culture speak thy sunless plants. 
And groves and gardens, which no mortal eye 
Hath seen and lived ? 

What sculptor's art hath wrought 
Those coral monuments and tombs of pearl. 
Where sleeps the sea-boy, mid a pomp that earth 
Denies her buried kings ? 

Whose science stretch'd 
The simplest line to curb thy monstrous tide, 
And, writing " Hitherto''^ upon the sand, 
Bade thy mad surge respect it ? 

From whose loom 
Comes forth thy drapery, that ne'er waxeth old ? 



212 THE DEEP. 

Who hath thy keys, thou deep ? Who taketh note 

Of all thy wealth ? Who numbereth the host 

That make their bed with thee ? What eye doth scan 

Thy secret annal, from creation lock'd 

Fast in those dark, illimitable cells, 

Which he who visited hath ne'er return'd 

To commune with the living ? 

One reply ! 
Do all thine echoing depths and tossing waves 
Make but one answer 1 of that One Dread Name 
Which he who deepest graves within his heart 
Is wisest, though the world may call him fool ? 

Therefore I come, a listener to thy voice, 
And bow me at thy feet, and touch my lip 
To thy cool billow, if perchance my soul, 
That fleeting wanderer on these shores of time, 
May, by thy voice instructed, learn of God. 



PLANTING FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE OF 
PARENTS. 



I've set the flow'rets where ye sleep, 

Father and mother dear, 
Their roots are in the mould so deep, 

Their bosoms bear a tear ; 
The tear-drop of the dewy morn 

Their trembling casket fills, 
Mix'd with that essence from the heart 

Which filial love distils. 

Above thy pillow, mother dear, 

I've placed thy favourite flower, 
The bright-eyed purple violet, 

That deck'd thy summer-bower ; 
The fragrant chamomile, that spreads 

Its verdure fresh and green, 
And richly broiders every niche 

The velvet turf between. 

I kiss'd the tender violet 

That droop'd its stranger-head. 
And call'd it blessed thus to grow 

So near my precious dead ; 
And when my venturous path shall be 

Across the deep blue sea, 
I bade it in its beauty rise, 

And guard that spot for me. 



214 PLANTING FLOWERS, ETC. 

There was no other child, my dead ! 

To do this deed for thee ; 
Mother ! no other nursling babe 

E'er sat upon thy knee, 
And, father ! that endearing name, 

No other lips than mine 
E'er breathed to prompt thy hallow'd prayer 

At morn or eve's decline. 

Tear not those flowers, thou idle child, 

Tear not the flowers that wave 
In sweet and simple sanctity 

Around this humble grave. 
Lest guardian angels from the skies. 

That watch amid the gloom. 
Should dart reproachful ire on those 

Who desecrate the tomb. 

And spare to pluck my sacred plants. 

Ye groups that wander nigh. 
When summer sunsets fire with gold 

The glorious western sky. 
That, when your sleep is in the dust, 

Where now your footsteps tread. 
Some kindred hand may train the rose 

To grace your lowly bed. 



"LORD, REMEMBER US." 

St. Luke. 



Behold the babe, with ceaseless cry, 

Just entering on mortality. 

Oh Saviour ! thou for whom wert spread. 

Mid wondering brutes, the manger-bed, 

With pity view its feeble strife, 

And fan the trembling spark of life. 

The boy, with giddy footsteps, strays 
Through hidden Danger's devious maze ; 
Thou ! who in childhood's wayward hour, 
Wert subject to thy mother's power, 
Withdraw his heart from Folly's snare. 
And in Thy wisdom let him share. 

The man mature, mid noontide heat. 
Temptation's countless forms must meet ; 
Redeemer ! thou who scorn and care 
With meek, unanswering love didst bear, 
His burdens ease, his thoughts control. 
And with thy patience arm his soul. 

The lonely stranger sorrowing roves. 

An exile from the land he loves ; 

Thou, who but in one cottage glade 

At Bethany wert welcome made. 

Speak peace when deep despondence sighs. 

And tell of mansions in the skies. 



1 



216 "lord, remember us." 

The mourner droops with heaving ^breast, 
Low, where his buried idols rest ; 
Remember, Thou, who once didst shed 
The tear of grief o'er friendship's bed. 
Remember ! let thy mercy flow, 
And bless for heaven those pangs of wo. 

The death-struck, on his couch of pain, 
Feels every earthly solace vain ; 
The eye is glazed, the spirit faint. 
Redeemer ! cheer thy suffering saint ; 
Infuse thy strength when nature dies. 
And to thy presence bid him rise. 



LIBRARY OF DR. BOWDITCH. 



" It is our hope and expectation, that for many years this apartment will 
remain as it was left." — Memoir by his So?i. 

Yes, leave it as it was, untouch'd, unchanged, 
And consecrate to hallow'd memories 
Of him, the clear-soul'd man, who dwelt with truth 
As with a brother. 

Break not their array, 
Those sages and philosophers, who mix'd 
Their thoughts with his, feeding the altar-flame 
Of science, with fresh incense day and night. 
Spake not the voices of the solemn stars 
Here to their votary ? Scann'd they here, his eye 
Unwearied, searching out their mystic laws ? 
And shed they not, from their eternal lamps, 
Serener light on him ? 

Methinks 'twere sin 
To pry with curious or irreverent hand 
Amid those pages where his self-taught mind 
Imbodied its creations. O'er yon desk 
How oft he toil'd amid the tomes he loved, 
To make the occult luminous, and strew 
The priceless jewels of profoundest thought 
To the wayfaring man, or him who steers 
With naught but seas around and skies above — 
The hardv mariner. 

T 



218 LIBRARY OF DR. BOWDITCH. 

Move not the chair 
Where by his side she sat, the tenderest friend, 
The mother of his children, her fond glance 
Intently resting on his studious brow, 
And oft by looks of answering love repaid. 
Here, too, his little ones, fearing no chill 
Of pedant frown, came flocking, for he join'd 
Their happy sports with full hilarity. 
— How bright his image, in this favour'd spot. 
Gleams o'er the sorrowing friend. Here was his wont 
To pour the tides of healthful feeling forth. 
In social interchange ; for still with him 
Majestic Science, in her loftiest heights. 
Knew no austerity, but hand in hand 
Walk'd with life's charities. 

And thus he lived, 
And thus, with cheerful acquiescence, met 
His euthanasia, and lay down in peace. 
His couch of pain made soft by filial hands. 

— Then let this haunt be sacred. 

For the foot 
Of strangers here in future days shall turn. 
As to some Mecca of Philosophy; 
And hither, too, the aspiring youth shall come 
To question of his greatness, or to seek 
Some relic of the wondrous man, whose fame 
Still gathereth greenness from the hand of Time. 



THE SAILOR'S APPEAL. 



Ye dwellers on the stable land, 

Of danger what know ye, 
Like us who brave the whelming surge, 

Or trust the treacherous sea? 
The fair trees shade you from the sun, 

You see the harvests grow. 
And breathe the fragrance of the breeze 

When the first roses blow. 

You slumber on your beds of down, 

Close wrapp'd, in chambers warm, 
Lull'd only to a deeper dream 

By the descending storm ; 
While high amid the slippery shroud 

We make our midnight path. 
And e'en the strongest mast is bowM 

Beneath the tempest's wrath. 

Yet still, what know ye of the joy 

That lights our ocean-strife, 
When on its way our gallant ship 

Rides like a thing of life ; 
When gayly towards the wish'd-for port 

With favouring wind we stand, 
Or first your misty line descry. 

Hills of our native land ! 



220 THE sailor's appeal. 

There's deadly peril in our path 

Beyond the wrecking blast, 
A peril that may reEtch the soul 

When life's short voyage is past ; 
Send us your Bibles when we go 

To dare the whelming wave, 
Your men of prayer, to teach us how 

To meet a watery grave. 

And, Saviour ! thou whose foot sublime 

The foaming surge did tread. 
Whose hand the rash disciple drew 

From darkness and the dead. 
Oh ! be our Ark when floods descend, 

When thunders shake the spheres. 
Our Ararat when tempests end. 

And the green earth appears. 



MORN AND EVEN. 



♦' Thou makest the outgoings of the morning and of the evening to re- 
joice." — David. 

The outgoings of sweet morn ! See the light mist, 

That spreads its white wing to the heavens away ; 
See the fresh blossoms by the blithe bee kiss'd ; 

The hilltop kindhng 'neath the King of Day ; 
Spire after spire, that drinks the genial ray ; 

The rocks, that in their rifted holds abide, 
And darkly frown, with heads forever gray ; 

While the clear stream gleams out in trembling pride 
Through its transparent veil, Hke a fair, timid bride. 

Morn to the Earth ! the cup of life she quaffs. 

And countless voices hail the sparkling draught, 
Methinks the lamb beside its mother laughs ; 

Up soars the lark, with song his Maker taught ; 
Sweet lisping murmurs wrap the infant's thought. 

As gladly from the cottage door it creeps ; 
The wild rill glitters through the lonely grot ; 

While the hoarse sea, whose anthem never sleeps. 
Reverberates God's praise through all its sounding deeps. 

Morn to the watcher by the sick man's bed ! 

The slow, slow clock tells out the welcome hour, 
And to the air he springs with buoyant tread ; 

The poor caged bird sings sweet in lady's bower ; 
T2 



222 MORN AND EVEN. 

The farmer, watchful lest the skies may lower, 
Thrusts his sharp sickle mid the bearded grain ; 

While sportive voices, strong in childhood's power, 
With merry music wake the village plain, 

And toil comes forth refresh'd, and age is young again. 

The outgoings of mild eve ! the folded rose ; 

Soft slumber settling on the lily's bell ; 
The solemn forest lull'd to deep repose, 

While restless winds no more its murmurs swell ; 
The stars emerging from their secret cell, 

A silent night-watch o'er the world to keep ; 
And then the queenly moon, attended well. 

Who o'er the mighty arch of heaven doth sweep. 
Speaking of Nature's King in language still and deep. 

The charms of eve how sweet, he best can say, 

Who, sickening at the city's dust and noise, 
And selfish arts that Mammon's votaries sway, 

Turns to his home to taste its simple joys ; 
There, climbing on his knee, his ruddy boys 

Wake that warm thrill which every care repays, 
And fondly hasting from her baby-toys. 

His prattling daughter seeks a father's gaze. 
And gives that tender smile which o'er his slumber plays. 

She, too, who wins her bread by toil severe, 
And from her home at early morn must go 

To earn the bread that dries her children's tear, 
How hails her heart, the sun declining low ! 

Love nerves the foot that else were sad and slow, 
And when afar her lowly roof she spies, 

Forgot is all her lot of scorn and wo ; 



MORN AND EVEN. 223 

A mother's rapture kindles in her eyes, 
As to her wearied arms the eager nursling flies. 

And see, from labour loosed, the drooping team, 

Unharness'd, hasting to their fragrant food, 
While, fearful of the hawk's marauding scream. 

The broad-wing'd mother folds her helpless brood ; 
In the cool chambers of the teeming flood 

The scaly monsters check their boisterous play, 
And, closely curtain'd wAd the quiet wood. 

The slumbering songsters hush their warbhng lay, 
While man's sweet hymn of praise doth close the summer 
day. 



BABE DYING IN ITS MOTHER'S ABSENCE. 



He lay 'tween life and death. 

The priestly hand 
Shed the baptismal water on his brow, 
While earnestly a solemn tone besought 
A heavenly place for that departing soul, 
In Jesus' name. 

The eye lay heavily 
And lustreless beneath the half-closed lids, 
But the small fingers all spasmodic thrill'd 
Within the nurse's clasp. 

She was not there 
Who nurtured that fair boy, and day by day 
Mark'd his smooth limbs to fuller roundness grow, 
And garner'd up each ringing, gleeful shout, 
Like music in her heart. She was not there. 
Had she but known his peril, what could stay 
The rushing traveller ? Not the mountains steep. 
Nor swollen floods, nor midnight's blackest shade. 
Nor wildest storm. Or had one darken'd dream. 
Mid her fond intercourse with joyous friends, 
Bore his changed image, not with sport and smile, 
But sleepless, starting from his fever'd bed. 
The pearly teeth gnash'd strongly, and the tongue, 
Untrain'd to language, moaning out his grief; 
Or had she seen him from his favourite cup 
Still force the spoon away, till his fair lip, 
So like a rosebud, sallow grew, and thin, 



BABE DYING IN ITS MOTHER's ABSENCE. 225 

How had she burst away to see him die, 
Or die with him. 

But ah, too late ! too late ! 
One bitter gasp upon a hireling's breast, 
And all is o'er ! Methought some lingering tie 
Held him to earth. What did thy pale hand seek 
With such a quivering eagerness, poor babe ? 
Thine absent mother ] Didst thou long to feel 
Her kiss upon thine eyelids, or her breath 
Parting the curls, and passing up to heaven 
A winged prayer ? 

Would that I could forget 
The weeping of that mother, when she takes 
That ice-cold body to her bursting heart ; 
Or even for that, too late, doth frantic press 
The pitying sexton for one last, drear sight 
Of her lost darling, in his desolate couch 
Most desolate, amid the mouldering dead. 

Mothers ! who, bending'o'er your cradled charge, 

Feel an unspoken love, cling to his side 

As the soul weds the clay. Can the whole earth, 

With all its pageantry, the wandering glance 

Scanning its proudest climes, buy one blest hour 

Like his confiding slumber in your arms ? 

Ye answer. No. 

So take your priceless meed. 

The first young love of innocence, the smile 

Singling you out from all the world beside ; 

And if, amid this hallow'd ministry. 

Heaven's messenger should claim the unstain'd soul. 

Yours be the hand to give it back to God. 



THE GREENLAND CONVERT. 



Mid-winter in the arctic zone, 

On Greenland's sterile shore, 
The frozen bay forgets to moan, 

Though wildest tempests roar ; 
No morn the shuddering skies to cheer, 

No sun the noon to light, 
Unpitying darkness, long and drear, 

Commingleth day with night. 

Close in each subterranean cell 

The shivering tenants clung. 
While snows on snows incessant fell, 

And whirlwind banners swung ; 
Around the seal-fed lamp they drew. 

That spark of life to fan. 
Which gleam'd with feeble radiance through 

Those effigies of man. 

Keen frosts, like subtle serpents, stole 

To every secret nook. 
And from the pulses of the soul 

Their lingering fervour took. 
Dire sounds ! the fearful icebergs quake. 

The solid rocks are riven, 
As though opposing thunders spake 

Harsh words of war in heaven. 



THE GREENLAND CONVERT. 227 

Oppress'd by sorrow's hopeless ban, 

In this most dreary place 
There dwelt a desolated man, 

The last of all his race ; 
One daughter, when the rest were dead. 

Long with her loving tone 
Sustain'd his heart, but she had fled, 

And he was left alone. 

" Beata ! in the blissful clime 

Where now thy lot is cast, 
Doth the young floweret reach its prime 

Unsmitten by the blast ? 
Is there a sky without a cloud ? 

An undeclining day ? 
No famine-pang ? no icy shroud ? 

My angel-daughter, say ! 

Oh, speak once more, with one sweet tone 

Confirm the promise blest. 
Whose spirit hush'd the parting groan 

When thou didst sink to rest :" 
Thus rose amid the rayless gloom 

Poor Agusina's moan, 
As with his lost one in the tomb 

He held communion lone. 

Oft, in the sacred Book of God, 

With tearful toil he sought, 
Till in his soul afliiction's rod 

A peaceful moral wrought ; 



228 THE GREENLAND CONVERT. 

Till humbled at his Saviour's feet 

In penitence he lay, 
And felt his pagan passions fleet 

On prayer's soft breath away. 

Stern sickness rack'd his aged frame, 

Unwonted torpor stole, 
And death all unresisted came 

To claim the ransom'd soul, 
Which, spreading wide a wondering wing, 

With song of triumph past 
From vengeful winter's sharpest sting. 

High o'er the shrieking blast. 

Red torches pierced the midnight gloom 

As with the dead they hied, 
And burst Beata's stony tomb 

To lay him by her side ; 
The lip so oft her sire that blest, 

No filial welcome gave. 
As brow to brow, and breast to breast, 

They fill'd that frost-bound grave. 

Strange music mid the funeral rite ! 

Sad dirges, soft and slow ! 
Whence cometh, in this realm of night, 

Such melody of wo ? 
A chapel-bell ! Who bids it speak 

In this forsaken bourne ? 
And thus, with Sabbath sweetness, break 

The trance of those who mourn ? 



THE GREENLAND CONVERT. 229 

Thou know'st not 1 Praise to God above ! 

The meek Moravian band, 
With all their habitudes of love, 

Have dared this fearful land : 
Hast thou not heard how Greenland's wild, 

Her everlasting snows, 
Beneath their husbandry have smiled. 

And blossom'd as the rose ? 

Their steps these saintly teachers turn'd 

To yon sepulchral bed, 
And o'er their buried convert mourn'd 

As for a brother dead ; 
And there, with anthems' holy breath, 

With prayers of heavenward trust, 
They mark'd, as with a living wreath, 

Poor Agusina's dust. 
U 



EARTH'S DELUSIONS. 



Build'st thou on Wealth ? Its wings are ever spread 
Its dazzled votaries to elude and foil ! 

On Science ? Lo ! the lofty sage hath fled, 
Like the pale lamp that lit his midnight toil, 
Forgotten as the flower that deck'd the vernal soil. 

Build'st thou on Love ? The trusting heart it cheers 
While youth and hope entwine their garlands gay, 

Yet hath it still an heritage of tears : 

Build'st thou on Fame ? The dancing meteor's ray 
Glides not on swifter wing, to deeper night away. 

Why, on such sands, thy spirit's temple rear ? 

How shall its base the wrecking billows shun 1 
Go, seek th' Eternal Rock, with humble fear, 

And on the tablet of each setting sun, 

Grave with a diamond pen some deed of duty done. 

Young, art thou ? then the words of Wisdom weigh 
Mature ! the gathering ills of life beware. 

Aged 1 Oh, make His changeless arm thy stay. 
Who saves the weakest suppliant from despair, 
And bids the darken'd tomb a robe of glory wear. 



DEATH OF A YOUNG MAN DEVOTED TO 
MISSIONS. 



Thou wert a musing student o'er thy book 
When first I saw thee. Yet the eagle's wing 
Soar'd not more duly sunward, than thy mind 
From cliff to cliff of knowledge urged its way, 
Kindling and glorying at the proud pursuit. 
A ripe, rare spirit wrought within thy form 
Of boyish beauty. 

Then thy glance grew deep, 
Feeding on secret, solitary thought 
With speechless joy. For thou didst hear that voice 
From voiceless nature, in the wind that swept 
Around thy student's chamber, in the stream 
Freshening the foliage of yon college grove. 
And in the whisper of the lone wild flower, 
Which none but poets hear. Thy waking lyre, 
Sweet son of song, won thee warm brotherhood 
From many a loving heart. 

Yet not the realm 
Of ancient learning, throng'd with classic shapes, 
Nor rose-wreath'd poesy's enchanting bowers, 
Contented thee. 

Thy soul had higher aims, 
And from Castalian waters meekly turn'd 
To the pure rill that kiss'd the Saviour's feet : 
And ever o'er its hour of lonely thought 



282 DEATH OF A YOUNG MAN DEVOTED TO MISSIONS. 

Or deep devotion, China's millions stole, 
Blind — wandering — lost. 

So, then, thou didst dismiss 
The host of pleasant fancies, which so long 
Had made thy pilgrimage a music strain. 
And for the outcast heathen pledge thy life, 
A diamond to the treasury of thy Lord. 
Heaven took the pledge, yet not for weary years 
Of toil, and pain, and age. 

There was a flush 
On thy young cheek, a fire within thine eye, 
A failing of the footstep, that was wont 
To tread green earth so light and buoyantly, 
A wasting of the half ethereal clay : 
Heaven took the pledge, and thou art all its own. 



APPROACH OF SPRING. 



" For, lo, the winter is past," — Solomon. 

God of each changing season, 
Creation speaks thy praise, 

But souls endued with reason 
The highest strain should raise. 

Lo ! wintry tempests sweeping, 
No more deform the sky. 

The crystal streamlet leaping 
Proclaimeth Spring is nigh. 

Farewell the dark dominion 
Of tyrant frost and snow, 

The robin spreads his pinion, 
And fragrant blossoms blow. 

Awake to budding glory. 
Ye trees so long oppress'd. 

So naked, scarr'd, and hoary. 
By wrecking winds distress'd. 

Break forth, ye tuneful bowers, 
Where thousand warblers fly, 

Unfold your robes, sweet flowers, 
The time of love is nigh. 
U2 



234 APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Let the glad heart be pouring 
Such lays as angels sing, 

Still to the bright world soaring 
Of everlasting Spring. 



SCIENCE AND RELIGION. 



" What gives the mind this globe of earth to scan, 
And chains brute instinct at the feet of man ? 
Bids the red comet on its car of flame 
Reveal its periods and declare its name ? 
With deathless radiance gilds the historic page. 
And reaps the laurels of a buried age?" 

Majestic Science, from his cloister'd shrine, 
Heard and replied, " This glorious power is mine." 

" But say, canst thou the erring spirit lead, 
That feels its weakness and deplores its need ? 
Canst thou the prison of despair illume ? 
Find sin a pardon, or disarm the tomb ?" 

With silent scorn the suppliant voice he spurn'd, 
And to his ponderous tomes indignant turn'd. 
Then from the cell, where long she dwelt apart. 
Her humble mansion in the contrite heart, 
Religion came ; and where proud Science faiFd, 
She bent her knee to earth, and with her Sire prevail'd. 



THE DIVIDED BURDEN. 



I SAW a boy who towards his cottage home 
A heavy burden bore. The way was steep 
And rocky, and his little loaded arm 
Strain'd downward to its full extent, while wide 
The other horizontally was thrown, 
As if to counterpoise the painful weight 
That drew him towards the earth. 

A while he paused 
And set his burden down, just where the path 
Grew more precipitous, and wiped his brow 
With his worn sleeve, and, panting, breathed long draughts 
Of the sweet air, while the hot summer sun 
Flamed o'er his forehead. 

But another boy, 
'Neath a cool poplar in a neighbouring field, 
Sat playing with his dog, and from the grass 
Uprising, with light bound the coppice clear'd, 
And lent a vigorous hand to share the toil. 
So on they went together, grasping firm 
The basket's handle with a right good will ; 
And while their young, clear voices met my ear, 
I recollected how the Bible said, 
" Bear one another's burdens," and perceived 
That to obey God's word w^s happiness. 



THE DIVIDED BURDEN. 237 

Then, as the bee gleans from the humblest flower 
Sown by the wayside honey for her hive, 
I treasured up the lesson, and when eve 
Call'd home the labouring ox, and to its bed 
Warn'd the young bird, and shut the lily's cup, 
I took my little boy upon my knee, 
And told him of the basket-bearer's toil. 
And of the friend who help'd him. 

When his eye 
Swell'd full and round, and fix'd upon my face. 
Taking the story to his inmost soul, 
I said, " My son, be pitiful to all, 
And aid them when thou canst. 

For God hath sown 
Sweet seeds within us, seeds of sympathy. 
Whose buds are virtues, such as bloom for heaven. 

If thy young sister weepeth, kiss the tear 

From her smooth cheek, and sooth with tender words 

Her swelling breast ; or if a secret thorn 

Is in thy brother's bosom, draw it thence ; 

Or if thy playmate sorroweth, lend an ear, 

And share with sympathy his weight of wo. 

And when thou art a man, my little one, 
Still keep thy spirit open to the ills 
Of foreigner and stranger, of the race 
Whom Afric's sun hath darken'd, and of those 
Poor red-brow'd exiles from our forest shades. 
Where once they ruled supreme. 

Thus shalt thou shun 
That selfishness which, wrapp'd in its own gifts. 



238 THE DIVIDED BURDEN. 

Forgets alike the Giver and the grief 
Of those who mourn. 

So mayst thou ever find 
Pity and love in thine own time of need, 
If on thy young heart, as a signet ring, 
Thou grav'st that motto from a Book Divine, 
* Bear one another's burdens, and fulfil 
The law of Christ,' " 



1 



THE SHIPWRECK. 



The good ship on the iceberg struck, where northern seas 
were high, 

And midnight wrapp'd in ebon veil the chill and starless sky : 

It struck ! what moment was there then to waste in sor- 
row's strife ! 

When but one bold adventurous rush remain'd 'tween death 
and life. 

The boat ! the boat ! it launches forth upon the mountain 

wave, 
And leaping throngs, with frantic haste, essay its power to 

save : 
A fragile thing, it tossing strove amid the wrathful tide, 
And deep, unutter'd pangs were theirs who left that vessel's 

side. 

A moonbeam pierced the heavy cloud : oh, God ! what sight 

was there ! 
Who stood upon that fated deck, in calm and mute despair ! 
A gentle maiden just aroused from slumber soft and dear, 
Stretch'd her white arms in wild amaze, but found no helper 

near. 

In fond adieu her hand she waved, as if some friend she 

bless'd. 
Then closer drew her snowy robe around her youthful 

breast ; 



240 THE SHIPWRECK. 

And upward to the darken'd heavens imploring glances cast, 
While her rich curls profusely fell, and floated on the blast. 

All sudden, from his wildering trance, a manly form did 

start. 
While a loud agonizing cry burst from his labouring heart ; 
His bloodless lip was deadly cold, strange lustre fill'd his eye, 
" How can I bear a brother's name, yet leave thee thus to 

die !" 

He plunged — the crested wave he ruled ; he climbed the 

cloven deck, 
And clasp'd her as the thundering surge swept o'er the 

heaving wreck : 
" Sweet sister, 'tis thy brother's voice ; his cheek is pressed 

to thine ; 
Together childhood's path we trod, thy last dread couch be 

mine !" 

Still look'd the moon with pitying eye, all lone and silent 

down. 
Encircling them with holy light as with a martyr's crown. 
Then shrank behind her fleecy veil ; hoarse shrieked th' 

impetuous main ; 
The deep sea closed — and where were they ? Ask of the 

angel train ! 

Ah ! noble hearts that night were whelm'd beneath the bil- 
lows high. 

And temples white with honour'd years, and woman's love- 
lit eye. 

And clinging to its mother's breast, in visions soft and deep, 

Unwaken'd innocence went down amid the pearls to sleep. 



THE SHIPWRECK. 241 

The slumberers — they who sank that hour, without a strug- 
gling breath, 

With whom the unbroken dream of life so melted into death, 

Say, turn'd they not, in deep amaze, to seek the scenes of 
time. 

When first eternity's dread shore spread out in pomp sub- 
lime ? 

Wo, wo was with the living heart ! In many a smitten home. 
Where, in the garniture of grief, the weeping inmates come, 
Round many a lonely hearth-stone shall Memory's touch 

restore 
The image of the loved and lost, who must return no more. 

The eye that saw that monster-mass come drifting darkly 

down, 
Destruction in its wintry blast and on its vitreous crown. 
The ear that heard the deadly crash, the thunder of the 

wave, 
Can never lose the bitter trace but in the oblivious grave. 

The rescued man, to listening groups, shall tell the fearful 
tale, 

And mute affection clasp his hand, and childhood's cheek 
be pale. 

And while, with quicken'd heart, they bless the great De- 
liverer's care. 

The iceberg and the buried ship shall prompt their tearful 
prayer. 

X 



PRAYER AT SEA. 



Prayer may be sweet in cottage homes, 
Where sire and child devoutly kneel, 

And through the open casement nigh 
The vernal blossoms gently steal. 

Prayer may be sweet in stately halls, 
Where heart with kindred heart is blent, 

And upward to the Eternal Throne 
The hymn of praise melodious sent. 

But he who fain would know how strong 
The soul's appeal to God may be, 

From friends and native land should turn, 
A wanderer on the faithless sea : 

Should hear its deep imploring tone 
Rise upward o'er the thundering surge. 

When breakers threat the fragile bark, 
And winds with waves their conflict urge. 

No spot on which his foot can rest. 
No refuge where his form may flee, 

How will he cling, oh Rock Divine, 
And bind his anchoring hope to Thee. 



GRASSMERE AND RYDAL WATER. 



O VALE of Grassmere ! tranquil, and shut out 
From all the strife that shakes a jarring world, 
How quietly thy village roofs are bower'd 
In the cool verdure, while thy graceful spire 
Guardeth the ashes of the noble dead, 
And, like a fix'd and solemn sentinel, 
Holm-Crag looks down on all. 

And thy pure lake, 
Spreading its waveless breast of crystal out 
'Tween thee and us, pencil, nor lip of man 
May fitly show its loveliness. The soul 
Doth hoard it as a gem, and, fancy-led, 
Explore its curving shores, its lonely isle, 
That like an emerald clasp'd in crystal, sleeps. 

Ho, stern Helvellyn ! with thy savage cliffs 
And dark ravines, where the rash traveller's feet 
Too oft have wander'd far and ne'er return'd. 
Why dost thou press so close yon margin green, 
Like border-chieftain seeking for his bride 
Some cottage-maiden ? Prince amid the hills, 
That each upon his feudal seat maintains 
Strict sovereignty, hast thou a tale of love 
For gentle Grassmere, that thou thus dost droop 
Thy plumed helmet o'er her, and peruse 
With such a searching gaze her mirror'd brow ? 



244 GRASSMERE AND RYDAL WATER. 

She listeneth coyly, and her guileless depths 
Are troubled at a tender thought from thee. 
And yet methinks some speech of love should dwell 
In scenes so beautiful. For not in vain, 
Nor with a feeble voice, doth He who spread 
Such glorious charms bespeak man's kindliness 
For all whom He hath made, bidding the heart 
Grasp every creature, with a warm embrace 
Of brotherhood. 

Lo ! what fantastic forms, 
In sudden change, are traced upon the sky. 
The sun doth subdivide himself, and shine 
On either side of an elongate cloud. 
Which, like an alligator huge and thin, 
Pierceth his disk. And then an ostrich seem'd 
Strangely to perch upon a wreath of foam, 
And gaze disdainful on the kingly orb, 
That lay o'erspent and weary. But he roused 
Up £is a giant, and the welkin glow'd 
With rushing splendour, while his puny foes 
Vanish'd in air. Old England's oaks outstretched 
Their mighty arms, and took that cloudless glance 
Into their bosoms, as a precious thing 
To be remember 'd long. 

And so we turn'd, 
And through romantic glades pursued our way, 
Where Rydal Water spends its thundering force, 
And through the dark gorge makes a double plunge 
Abruptly beautiful. Thicket, and rock, 
And ancient summer-house, and sheeted foam 
All exquisitely blent, while deafening sound 
Of torrents battling with their ruffian foes 



GRASSMERE AND RYDAL WATER. 245 

Fill'd the admiring gaze with awe, and wrought 
A dim forgetfulness of all beside. 

Thee, too, I found within thy sylvan home. 
Whose music thrill'd my heart when life was new, 
Wordsworth ! with wild enchantment circled round, 
In love with Nature's self, and she with thee. 
Thy ready hand, that from the landscape cull'd 
Its long familiar charms, rock, tree, and spire, 
With kindness half paternal leading on 
My stranger footsteps through the garden walk. 
Mid shrubs and flowers that from thy planting grew ; 
The group of dear ones gathering round thy board — 
She, the first friend, still as in youth beloved — 
The daughter, sweet companion — sons mature. 
And favourite grandchild, with his treasured phrase — 
The evening lamp, that o'er thy silver locks 
And ample brow fell fitfully, and touch'd 
Thy lifted eye with earnestness of thought. 
Are with me as a picture, ne'er to fade 
Till death shall darken all material things. 
X2 



THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF SIR WALTER 
SCOTT. 



Rest with the noble dead 

In Dryburgh's solemn pile, 
Where sleep the peer and warrior bold, 
And mitred abbots stern and old, 

Along the statued isle ; 
Where, stain'd with dust of buried years, 
The rude sarcophagus appears 

In mould imbedded deep ; 
And Scotia's skies of sparkling blue 
Stream the oriel windows through, 

Where ivied masses creep ; 
And, touch'd with symmetry sublime. 
The moss-clad towers that mock at time 

Their mouldering legends keep. 

And yet methinks thou shouldst have chose 

Thy latest couch at fair Melrose, 
Whence burst thy first, most ardent song. 
And swept with wildering force along 

Where Tweed in silver flows. 
There the young moonbeams, quivering faint 
O'er mural tablet sculptured quaint. 

Reveal a lordly race ; 
And knots of roses richly wrought. 
And tracery light as poet's thought, 

The cluster'd columns grace. 



THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 247 

There good King David's rugged mien 
Fast by his faithful spouse is seen, 

And 'neath the stony floor 
Lie chiefs of Douglas' haughty breast, 
Contented now to take their rest. 

And rule their kings no more. 

It was a painful thing to see 

Trim Abbotsford so gay, 
The rose-trees climbing there so bold, 
The ripening fruits in rind of gold, 

And thou, their lord, away. 

I saw the lamp, with oil unspent, 

O'er which thy thoughtful brow was bent, 

When erst, with magic skill, 
Unearthly beings heard thy call, 
And flitting spectres throng'd the hall, 

Obedient to thy will. 

Yon fair domain was all thine own. 
From stately roof to threshold stone. 

Yet didst thou lavish pay 
The coin that caused life's wheels to stop ? 
The heart's blood oozing drop by drop 

Through the tired brain away 1 

I said the lamp unspent was there. 
The books arranged in order fair ; 
But none of all thy kindred race 
Found in those lordly halls a place : 
Thine only son, in foreign lands. 
Led boldly on his martial bands. 



248 THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

And stranger-lips, unmoved and cold, 
The legends of thy mansion told ; 
They lauded glittering brand and spear, 
And costly gifts of prince and peer. 
And broad claymore, with silver dight, 
And hunting-horn of border knight — 

What were such gauds to me ? 
More dear had been one single word 
From those whose veins thy blood had stirr'd 

To Scotia's accents free. 

Yet one there was, in humble cell, 

A poor retainer, lone and old, 
Who of thy youth remember'd well, 

And many a treasured story told ; 
And pride, upon her wrinkled face, 

Blent strangely with the trickling tear, 
As Memory, from its choicest place. 
Brought forth, in deep recorded trace, 

Thy boyhood's gambols dear. 
Or pointed out, with wither'd hand. 
Where erst thy garden-seat did stand, 
When thou return'd from travel vain, 
Wrapp'd in thy plaid, and pale with pain, 

Didst gaze with vacant eye, 
For stern disease had drank the fount 

Of mental vision dry. 

Ah ! what avails, with giant power, 
To wrest the trophies of an hour ; 
One moment write, with sparkling eye, 
Our name on castled turrets high, 



THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 249 

And yield the next, a broken trust, 
To earth, to ashes, and to dust. 

And now farewell, whose hand did sweep 

Away the damps of ages deep. 

And fire with proud baronial strain 

The harp of chivalry again, 

And make its wild, forgotten thrill 

To modern ears delightful still. 

Thou, who didst make, from shore to shore, 
Bleak Caledonia's mountains hoar, 
Her blue lakes bosom'd in their shade, 
Her sheepfolds scattered o'er the glade, 
Her rills, with music, leaping down. 
The perfume of her heather brown. 
Familiar as their native glen 
To differing tribes of distant men. 
Patriot and bard ! old Scotia's care 
Shall keep thine image fresh and fair. 
Embalming to remotest time 
The Shakspeare of her tuneful clime. 



FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH. 



The shade is on thy brow, sweet land, 

The shade is on thy brow, 
For autumn rends away the crown 

That summer gave but now ; 
I turn me towards a greener clime, 

Where Albion's groves appear, 
But still the tear is on my cheek 

For thee, Edina dear. 

There may, perchance, be richer realms, 

Where pride and splendour roll. 
But thou hast, sure, the wealth of heart. 

That wins the stranger's soul ; 
There may, perchance, be those who say 

That Scotia's hills are drear, 
Yet tears are lingering on my cheek 

For thee, Edina dear. 

And when, my pilgrim-wanderings o'er, 

I seek my native-land, 
And by my ingle-side once more 

Do clasp the kindred hand. 
And tell my listening children tales 

Of climes of foreign fame, 
Their grateful tears with mine will fall 

At dear Edina's name. 



STATUE OF THE SPINNING GIRL, 

AT CHATSWORTH, THE SEAT OF THE DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE. 



Spin on, most beautiful. 

There's none to mock 
Thy simple labour here. Majestic forms 
Of high renown, and brows of classic grace, 
Whose sculptured features speak the breathing soul. 
Rise in illustrious ranks, but not to scorn 
Thy lowly toil. 

Even so it was of old. 
That woman's hand, amid the elements 
Of patient industry and household good, 
Reproachless wrought, twining the slender thread 
From the light distaff, or in skilful loom 
Weaving rich tissues, or with glowing tints 
Of rich embroidery, pleased to decorate 
The mantle of her lord. And it was well ; 
For in such shelter'd and congenial sphere 
Content with duty dwelt. 

Yet few there are. 
Sweet Filatrice, who in their earnest task 
Find such retreat as thine, mid lordly halls, 
And sparkling fountains, and umbrageous trees, 
And parks far stretching, where the antler'd deer 
Forget the hound and horn. 

And we, who roam 
Mid all this grand enchantment — proud saloons, 



252 STATUE OF THE SPINNING GIRL. 

And galleries radiant with the gems of art 

And genius, ravish'd from the grasp of time — 

And princely chapel, uttering praise to God — 

Or lose ourselves amid the wildering maze 

Of plants, and flowers, and blossoms, breathing forth 

Their eloquence to Him — delighted lay 

This slight memorial at thy snowy feet. 



SHEEP ON THE CHEVIOT HILLS. 



Graze on, graze on, there comes no sound 

Of border-warfare here, 
No slogan cry of gathering clan, 

No battle-axe or spear ; 
No belted knight in armour bright, 

With glance of kindling ire. 
Doth change the sports of Chevy-Chase 

To conflict stern and dire. 

Ye wist not that ye press the spot 

Where Percy held his way 
Across the marches, in his pride 

The " chiefest hearts to slay," 
And where the stout Earl Douglas rode 

Upon his milk-white steed, 
With fifteen hundred Scottish spears 

To stay the invader's deed. 

Graze on, graze on, there's many a rill, 

Wild wandering through the glade. 
Where you may freely slake your thirst, 

With none to make afraid ; 
There's many a murmuring stream that flows 

From Cheviot's terraced side. 
Yet not one drop of warrior's gore 

Distains its crystal tide. 
Y 



254 SHEEP ON THE CHEVIOT HILLS. 

For Scotia from her hills hath come, 

And Albion o'er the Tweed, 
To give the mountain breeze the feuds 

That made their noblest bleed, 
And like two friends, around whose hearts 

Some dire estrangement run. 
Love all the closer for the past, 

And sit them down as one. 



SEPARATION. 



You've watch'd the lessening sail 

That bore the friend away, 
Till but a misty speck it seem'd 

Upon the billowy bay ; 
The grating wheels you've mark'd 

In their receding flight, 
Like victors vaunting, as they took 

Your treasure from your sight. 

A sever'd tress you've hid 

Next to your bosom's core, 
A plant, the parting token, nursed 

Till all its bloom was o'er ; 
Amid your choicest page 

Some wither'd flow'ret prest, 
That erst a prouder place maintain'd 

Upon the dear one's breast. 

You o'er the pencill'd brow 

In solitude have hung, 
And to the voiceless picture talk'd 

With love's impassion'd tongue ; 
You've sought the favourite walk, 

Green dell, or sea-girt shore, 
And felt how deep the shade had fallen 

On all that charm'd before : 



256 SEPARATION. 

Or to your secret bower 

In lonely sadness stole, 
To muse o'er hoarded word and smile, 

Those jewels of the soul ; 
You've borne a precious name 

• Upon your soul-breathed prayer, 
And at the threshold of the skies 

Reposed your anxious care. 

The unutterM pang you've felt, 

The bursting tear represt. 
And shut the rankling anguish close 

Within your burden'd breast ; 
Or worn the outward smile. 

The hollow greeting said. 
Till darkly on the springs of life 

The smother'd sorrow fed. 

To twine the spring-tide wreath, 

And mourn o'er autumn's bier, 
The hope to win, the joy to lose. 

This is our history here ; 
To find the rose, whose bloom 

Nor thorn nor blight hath riven. 
To meet, and never more to part. 

Is not of earth, but heaven. 



THE DESOLATE COTTAGE. 



There stands a cottage on the Owlbar Moor, 

Just where its heathery blackness melts away 

To England's mellower green. Fast by its side 

Nestled the wheat-stack, firmly bound and shaped 

Even like another roof-tree, witnessing 

Fair harvest and good husbandry. Some sheep 

Roam'd eastward o'er the common, nibbling close 

The scanty blade, while towards the setting sun 

A hillock stretch'd, o'ershadow'd by a growth 

Of newly-planted trees. 'Twould seem the abode 

Of rural plenty and content. Yet here 

A desolate sorrow dwelt, such as doth wring 

Plain honest hearts, when what had long been twined 

With every fibre is dissected out. 

Beneath the shelter of those lowly eaves 
An only daughter made the parents glad 
With her unfolding beauties. Day by day 
She gather'd sweetness on her lonely stem, 
The lily of the moorlands. They, with thoughts 
Upon their humble tasks, how best to save 
Their little gain, or make that little more. 
Scarce knew that she was beautiful, yet felt 
Strange thrall upon their spirits when she spoke 
So musical, or from some storied page 
Beguiled their evening hour. 
Y2 



258 THE DESOLATE COTTAGE. 

And when the sire 
Descanted long, as farmers sometimes will, 
About the promise of his crops, and how 
The neighbours envied that his corn should be 
Higher than theirs, and how the man that hoped 
Surely to thrive must leave his bed betimes. 
Or of her golden cheese the mother told, 
She with a filial and serene regard 
Would seem to listen, her young heart away 
Mid other things. For in her lonely room 
She had companions that they knew not of — 
Books that reveal the sources of the soul, 
Deep meditations, high imaginings — 
And ofttimes, when the cottage lamp was out. 
She sat communing with them, while the moon 
Look'd through her narrow casement fitfully. 
Hence grew her brow so spiritual, and her cheek 
Pale with the purity of thought, that gleam'd 
Around her from above. 

The buxom youth, 
Nursed at the ploughshare, wondering eyed her charms, 
Or of her aspen gracefulness of form 
Spoke slightingly. Yet when they saw the fields 
Her father till'd, well clad with ripening grain. 
And knew he had no other heir beside. 
They with unwonted wealth of Sunday clothes. 
And huge red nosegays flaunting in their hands. 
Were fain to woo her. And they marvell'd much 
How the sweet fairy, with such quiet air 
Of mild indifference, and with truthful words 
Kind, yet determinate, withdrew herself 
To chosen solitude, intent to keep 
A maiden's freedom. 



THE DESOLATE COTTAGE. 259 

But in lonely walks, 
What time the early violets richly blent 
Their trembling colours with the vernal green, 
A student boy, who dwelt among the hills, 
Taught her of love. There rose an ancient tree, 
The glory of their rustic garden's bound, 
Around whose rough circumference of trunk 
A garden seat was wreathed ; and there they sat, 
Watching gray-vested twilight, as she bore 
Such gifts of tender and half-utter'd thought 
As lovers prize. When the thin-blossom'd furze 
Gave out its autumn-sweetness, and the walls 
Of that low cot with the red-berried ash 
Kindled in pride, they parted ; he to toil 
Amid his college tasks, and she to weep. 
— The precious scrolls, that with his ardent heart 
So faithfully were tinged, unceasing sought 
Her hand, and o'er their varied lines to pore 
Amid his absence, was her chief delight. 

— At length they came not. She with sleepless eye, 
And lip that every morn more bloodless grew, 
Demanded them in vain. And then the tongue 
Of a hoarse gossip told her he was dead — 
Drowned in the deep, and dead. 

Her young heart died 
Away at these dread sounds. Her upraised eye 
Grew large and wild, and never closed again. 
" Hark ! Hark ! He calleth ! I must hence away !" 
She murmured oft, but faint and fainter still. 
Nor other word she spake. And so she died. 



260 THE DESOLATE COTTAGE. 

— And now that cottage on the Owlbar Moor 
Hath no sweet visitant of earthly hope 
To cheer its toiUng inmates. Habit-led, 
They sow and reap, and spread the humble board, 
But steep their bread in tears. 

God grant them grace 
To take his chastisement, like those who gain 
A more enduring substance from the blast 
That leaveth house and heart so desolate. 



THE ELM-TREES. 



I DO remember me 

Of two old elm-trees' shade, 
With mosses sprinkled at their feet, 

Where my young childhood play'd ; 
While the rocks above their head 

Frown'd out so stern and gray, 
And the little crystal streamlet near 

Went leaping on its way. 

There, side by side, they flourish'd. 

With intertwining crown, 
And through their broad embracing arms 

The prying moon look'd down ; 
And I deem'd, as there I linger'd — 

A musing child, alone — 
She sought my secret heart to scan 

From her far silver throne. 

I do remember me 

Of all their wealth of leaves, 
When summer, in her radiant loom. 

The burning solstice weaves ; 
And how, with firm endurance. 

They braved an adverse sky. 
Like Belisarius, doom'd to meet 

His country's wintry eye. 



262 THE ELM-TREES. 

I've roam'd through varied regions, 

Where stranger-streamlets run, 
And where the proud magnolia flaunts 

Beneath a southern sun. 
And vi^here the sparse and stinted pine 

Puts forth its sombre form, 
• A vassal to the arctic cloud, 

And to the tyrant storm. 

And where the pure unruffled lakes 

In placid wavelets roll. 
Or where sublime Niagara shakes 

The wonder-stricken soul, 
I've seen the temple's sculptured pile, 

The pencil's glorious art. 
Yet still those old green trees I wore 

Depictured on my heart. 

Years fled ; my native vale I sought. 

Where those tall elm-trees wave ; 
But many a column of its trust 

Lay broken in the grave. 
The ancient and the white-hair'd men, 

Whose wisdom was its stay, 
For them I ask'd, and Echo's voice 

Made answer, " Where are they ?" 

I sought the thrifty matron, 
Whose busy wheel was heard 

When the early beams of morning 
Awoke the chirping bird ; 



THE ELM-TREE. 263 

Strange faces from her window look'd, 

Strange voices fill'd h^r cot, 
And, 'neath the very vine she train'd, 

Her memory was forgot. 

I left a youthful mother, 

Her children round her knee, 
Those babes had risen into men, 

And coldly look'd on me ; 
But she, with all her bloom and grace, 

Did in the churchyard lie, 
While still those changeless elms upbore 

Their kingly canopy. 

Though we, who 'neath their lofty screen 

Pursued our childish play. 
May show amid our sunny locks 

Some lurking tints of gray, 
And though the village of our love 

Doth many a change betide, 
Still do those sacred elm-trees stand, 

In all their strength and pride. 



THE YOUNG MOTHER. 



There sat upon the parent's knee, 

In love supremely bless'd, 
An infant, fair and full of glee. 

Caressing and caress'd, 
While siren Hope, with gladness wild, 

And eye cerulean blue. 
Bent sweetly down to kiss the child, 

And bless the mother too. 

Then Memory came, with serious mien, 

And, looking back the while, 
Cast such a shadow o'er the scene 

As dimm'd Affection's smile ; 
For still to Fancy's brightest hours 

She gave a hue of care. 
And bitter odours tinged the flowers 

That wreathed her sunny hair. 

But in the youthful mother's soul 

Each cloud of gloom was brief, 
Too pure her raptured feelings roll 

To take the tint of grief; 
Firm Faith around her idol boy 

Its radiant mantle threw, ^ 

And claim'd for him a higher joy 

Than Hope or Memory knew. 



I 



THE MILLINERS AND FISHES. 



Commerce and enterprise should be applauded, 
And so the Paris milliners opine 
It seems ; for when their fashionable fabrics 
Grow obsolete, 'tis said they freight a vessel 
Straight for the Baltic, and the Northern belles 
In the quaint fragments of the realm of taste, 
Proudly array themselves. And yet 'twere sad, 
Methinks, to see, at polar fete or ball. 
Some shivering Nova-Zemblan lady flaunt 
In robe of lace, short-sleeved, the purple bust 
Reveal'd most liberally. 

Once a storm, 
Hoarse from the Gulf of Finland, crossly wreck'd 
The adventurous ship quite near her destined port, 
And strew'd her riches o'er the admiring deep. 
There perish'd many a hope of many a fair 
Young sempstress, by such cruel loss condemn'd 
To wear her cast-off dress another year, 
Vamp'd up as best she may. 

'Tis an ill wind 
That blows no good. The watery realm rejoiced, 
For all its finny aristocracy 
Of their oldfashioned suits had long complain'd. 
Next day a Salmon at the Neva's mouth 
Was taken, very delicately clad 
In a white lutestring drapery, with veil 
Z 



266 THE MILLINERS AND FISHES. 

Of costly blonde : her wedding dress, no doubt. 
The bridemaid, Porpoise, wore a radiant zone 
Girt rather tight around the slender waist, 
While her embroider'd mouchoir snugly hid 
A bottle of Cologne to cheer the bride 
During the service. Ogling, near the shore 
A Sturgeon stole, her finery to display : 
A very stiff brocade, with bishop sleeves, 
Making such huge circumference 'twere well 
She had no neighbour near ; while a smart hat 
Envelop'd in its rich rotundity 
Her fairy brow. 

The Seal was taking snuff. 
And thrust his box in a bead reticule ; 
The other rough paw held a parasol 
Of parti-colour'd silk, and ivory-staff 'd : 
'Twas thought the Amphibia, one and all, would find 
This fashion quite commodious, in their walks 
To leave their cards beneath the summer sun. 

— A Shark in a small boat's wake follow'd long ; 
The sailors thought his purpose was to eat them. 
And spread all sail ; but Hwas to he unlaced, 
For he a pair of corsets had rigg'd on, 
With busk and bones, just fashionably light. 
But could not bear the torture ; so with haste 
Panting and flouncing, sought to be released. 
Item : Would it not be the surest way 
To kill that hardy and voracious fish. 
Which ofttimes foils the harpoon 1 

Mighty mounds 
Of artificial flowers did make the deep 



THE MILLINERS AND FISHES. 267 

Glow like a greenhouse. Full frisets and curls 
Lay unregarded, till a prudish Pike, 
Suspected to be somewhat in her wane, 
Assumed a wig, declaring it more cool. 
And vastly more delightful to the head 
Than was the natural hair. 

Such varied stores 
Of gay gauze robes on seaweed hedges hung. 
That the plebeians thought to have a ball 
In the old Coral Palace. Thither came 
The CodUngs, deck'd with drooping Ostrich-plumes , 
The purblind Lampreys, each with opera-glass 
Uplifted pertly, and gay safety-chain 
The gilded watch within their belts to guard ; 
The Lobsters toiling their red arms to hide 
'Neath long kid gloves, and their strange nether limbs 
Ensconced in gaiter-boots ; while countless shoals 
Of Herrings flock'd, false brilliants in their heads 
In gorgeous knots ; and Crabs with widespread fans. 
Aping the elegant, but inly chafed 
To find their retrograding step confound 
Their partners, figuring in the favourite waltz. 

— A barge of Oysters reach'd St. Petersburgh : 
Extremely loth they were to be dissected. 
For those sly people in their cloister'd cells, 
Close-mouth'd as Achan with his wedge of gold, 
Lock'd hoards of jewelry, broaches and rings 
Profuse as ancient Cannae's battle spoil. 

— Even thus it is. What bodeth loss to one 
Doth prove another's gain. The adversity 



268 THE MILLINERS AND FISHES. 

Of those French milliners did benefit 

The comnnonwealth of fishes. A few tears, 

Brief and soon dried, fiU'd the broad sea with joy 

And merry pastime. One small spot of earth 

Was sad, but what a gorgeous holyday 

Held Ocean's myriads ! 

Sure the tuneful bard 
Of Twickenham hath not unjustly styled 
" All 'partial evil universal good" 



THE KING OF THE ICEBERGS. 



Serene the Sabbath evening fell 

Upon the Northern deep, 
And lonely there a noble bark 

Across the waves did sweep ; 
She rode them like a living thing, 

That heeds not blast nor storm, 
When, lo ! the King of the Icebergs rose, 

A strange and awful form. 

Upon the horizon's verge he frown'd, 

A mountain mid the main. 
As erst Philistia's giant tower'd 

O'er Israel's tented plain. 
And hoarsely o'er the dark blue sea 

Was a threat'ning challenge toss'd, 
" Who is this, that dares, with feet of fire. 

To tread in my realm of frost ?" 

Yet on the gallant steamship went, 

Her heart of flame beat high, 
And the stream of her fervent breath flow'd out 

In volumes o'er the sky ! 
So the Ice-King seized his deadly lance 

To pierce the stranger foe, 
And down to his deed of vengeance rush'd, 

Troubling the depths below. 
Z2 



270 THE KING OF THE ICEBERGS. 

The watchful stars look'd calmly on, 

Girt with their silver zones, 
When a flash of bursting glory traced 

An arch around their thrones. 
For Aurora Borealis bent 

From her palace above the skies, 
And the wondering billows open'd wide 

Their phosphorescent eyes. 

Firm at his post the captain stood, 

Clear-soul'd and undismay'd. 
And the King of the Iceberg's power defied, 

While night drew on its shade ; 
On, through the interdicted realm, 

With fearless prow he sped, 
Though round him gathering dangers press'd, 

And nameless forms of dread. 

And longer had he borne the strife, 

But he thought of those who gave 
Their life and welfare to his hand 

Upon the faithless wave ; 
The noble and the true of heart, 

The helpless and the fair. 
The child upon its mother's knee, 

That knew no fear nor care ; 

And felt, in their far-distant homes. 

How deep the grief and sore. 
If the lip of love for them should ask, 

And they return no more. 



THE KING OF THE ICEBERGS. 271 

And so his gallant ship he steer'd 

From the disastrous fray, 
And full in the teeth of the southern blast 

Led on her venturous way. 

" Not thus shall ye 'scape my stormy ire," 

The King of the Icebergs spake, 
And bade unloose his vassal train, 

By arctic stream and lake ; 
And swift a countless monster train 

Rode over the waters blue, 
With their dazzling helms and stony eyes, 

A pitiless, ruffian crew. 

An icy ambush around the keel 

With breathless speed they laid. 
And the vengeful monarch laugh'd to see 

How strong that mesh was made ; 
And, clustering close, that squadron dire 

Spread over the startled flood. 
While their arrows of frost flew thick, and chill'd 

The hardiest seaman's blood. 

But there fell a gleam of the light above. 

That with Mercy's angel dwells. 
And aided the labouring bark to foil 

The King of the Iceberg's spells : 
For this, by many a hearth-stone bright, 

A strain of praise shall be. 
To him who guides the wanderer home. 

And rules the boisterous sea. 



VALE OF THE MOHAWK. 



Vale of the Mohawk, freshly green, 
What beauty in thy bound is seen ! 
What verdure clothes thy fair retreats, 
How revels every gale in sweets ! 
Each leaf with dewy lustre shining, 
Each vine with strong embrace entwining, 
And where thy rich alluvial glows, 
And full-gorged Plenty seeks repose. 
It seems that scarce the hand of toil 
Need vex the bosom of the soil, 
So kindly Earth the seed receives, 
So free returns the weight of sheaves. 
And there thy river, pure and sheen. 
Flows on, its fringed banks between, 
Proud of its realm, and pleased to glide 
To meet old Hudson's mightier tide. 
From meads of clover rich and high 
We saw the plundering bees go by. 
And yet they scarce the surface stirr'd 
Of sweets, on which the expecting herd 
Shall banquet, when the mowers blithe 
In the shorn flower-cups dip their scythe. 
We saw the reaper girded meet 
To sweep away the ripen'd wheat : 
But to his throat advancing high 
Its bearded lance and russet eye, 



VALE OF THE MOHAWK. ,273 

He stoutly wrestled on his way, 
Like swimmer with the billowy bay, 
Till all behind his path of toil 
Lay in dead waves, the harvest-spoil. 

— While we, of bleak New-England's coast, 

That ne'er a mine of wealth might boast, 

Save what her sons laborious find 

Who dig the quarry of the mind, 

(And, certes, they such wealth who hold. 

May well contemn the lust of gold) 

We, still delighted and amazed. 

Upon these haunts of richness gazed, 

Nor spared to praise, with heart elate. 

The splendour of the " Empire State :" 

— But lauded more, in accents bland. 

The glory of our Native Land, 

Who, if she simply understood 

The flowing fulness of her good. 

And felt her blessings as she ought. 

And praised her Maker in her thought. 

And did His will, might surely be 

The very happiest of the free. 



LOVE OF WEALTH. 



O Earth ! thou gorged and mighty sepulchre ! 
How find'st thou room for all the born of clay, 
From him, the sire of Eden, to the babe 
That gasps this hour ? 

Why need we join the race 
For shadows on thy surface ? hastening on 
Ourselves like shadows, to the common home 
That waits the dead. 

What boots a broad domain, 
A lordly heritage, for which are feuds, 
Heart-burnings, and, perchance, a brother's blood ? 

— Show me the face, upon thy country's map, 

Of that estate which lust hath coveted 

And fraud obtain'd. Show me its waving trees, 

Its pleasant hillocks, and its corn-clad vales. 

Thou canst not ! Boast they not one narrow space 

Upon the picture 1 Yet for this a soul 

Hath lost its place in Heaven ! 

And shall we throw 
Love, truth, and conscience in the ill-poised scale. 
Bidding some little modicum of gold 
Outweigh them all ? 

I thought that I had read 
There was a judgment, where the deeds of men 
Met just reward. But they who lightly look 



LOVE OF WEALTH. 275 

Upon the shifting face of things, might deem 

God's page of truth reversed, and that the gain 

Of wealth was what the denizens of earth 

Did chiefly toil and strive for, and the words 

" Get ricK^ had been sole passport to heaven's gate. 



MUTATIONS. 



As waves the grass upon the fields to-day, 
Which soon the wasting scythe shall sweep away, 
As smiles the flow'ret in the morning dew. 
Which eve's chill blast in blighted death may strew, 
Thus in brief glory spring the sons of clay, 
Thus bloom a while, then wither and decay. 

I saw an infant in its robe of white, 

The admiring mother's ever dear delight ; 

It clapp'd its hands when tones of mirth went by, 

And nature's gladness glisten'd in its eye ; 

Again I came — an empty crib was there, 

A little coffin, and a funeral prayer. 

I saw a boy in healthful vigour bold, 

Nor summer's heat he fear'd, nor winter's cold, 

With dexterous foot he dared the frozen pool. 

His laugh rang loudest mid his mates at school ; 

Again I came — his name alone was found 

On one low stone that marks yon churchyard mound. 

1 saw a gentle maid with beauty bless'd. 
In youth resplendent, and by love caress'd. 
Her clustering hair in sunny ringlets glow'd. 
Her red lips moved, and thrilling music flow'd ; 
Again I came — her parents' halls were lone. 
And o'er her turf-bed rose the weeper's moan. 



MUTATIONS. 277 

Oh boasted joys of earth ! how swift ye fly, 
Rent from the heart or hidden from the eye ; 
So through the web the weaver's shuttle glides, 
So speeds the vessel o'er the billowy tides. 
So cleaves the bird the liquid fields of light, 
And leaves no furrow of its trackless flight. 

Dust tends to dust, with ashes, ashes blend. 
Yet when the grave ingulfs the buried friend, 
A few brief sighs may mark its yawning brink, 
A few salt tears the broken clods may drink, 
A few sad hearts with bursting anguish bleed. 
And pay that tribute which they soon must need. 

They soon must need ! But life's returning cares 
Sweep ofl* the precious fruit that sorrow bears ; 
The mourner drops his sable, and aspires 
To light anew ambition's smother'd fires. 
Bathes his worn brow with labour's wasting dew, 
And sleepless toils for heirs he knows not who. 

Then He who marks us in our vain career, 
Ofl; smites in mercy what we hold most dear. 
Shreds from our vine the bowering leaves away. 
And breaks its tendrils from their grovelling stay, 
That the rich clusters, lifted to the sky, 
May ripen better for a world on high. 
Aa 



RETURN OF THE PASTOR. 



Thou who on the mighty deep 
Didst our friend, our pastor keep, 
On the billows' angry breast 
Lull him like a babe to rest. 
While beneath their watery floor 
Thousands sank to rise no more, 
Here, within this temple-shrine, 
Father ! let the praise be thine. 

Thou who from a foreign sky. 
Strangers' hearth and strangers' eye, 
Bore him to his native strand, 
To the green hills of our land, 
To the home where love and prayer 
Watch'd for him with ceaseless care, 
Here, within this temple-shrine, 
Father ! let the praise be thine. 

Sickness had an arrow dire 
Dipp'd for him in fever's fire, 
Spread an ambush dark with strife 
Round the fountain-head of life. 
Thou ! who from the yawning grave 
Raised him up to guide and save. 
Here, within this temple-shrine. 
Father ! let the praise be thine. 



OUR TEACHERS. 



'* I feel that the dead have conferred a blessing on me, by helping me to 
think of the world rightly." — Rev. Orville Dewey. 

Say'st thou the dead are teachers ? 

Must we come, 
And sit among the clods, 9.nd lay our ear 
To the damp crannies of the loathsome tomb, 
And listen for their lore ? 

There comes no sound 
From all those stern and stone-bound sepulchres. 
Grassblades are there, and flowers, and now and then 
A mother-bird doth cheer her callow young 
With chirping strain ; while the low winds that sweep 
The shivering harp.strings of yon ancient pines 
Make sullen undulation. 

Still thou say'st 
The silent dead are teachers. 

Stretch your hands, 
And on our tablets write one pencil-trace, 
That we may hoard it in our heart of hearts. 
All motionless ! All passionless ! All mute ! 
O silence ! twin with wisdom ! I would press 
My lip upon yon cradled infant's grave. 
And drink the murmur of its smitten bloom. 
A mother's young pride in her beautiful. 
Her darling ministries from eve to morn, 



280 OUR TEACHERS. 

Laid low ! Laid low ! How slight the aspen stem 
Round which her heart's joys twined. Yet all are frail, 
All like the crisp stalk in the reaper's path. 

— Read I thy lesson right, my little one ? 

See, by thy side, the strong man sleepeth well. 

The tall, proud man, who tower'd, like Israel's king. 

With head above the people. Yet his wail, 

Was it not weak as thine when death launch'd home 

The fatal dart ? Humility befits 

The born of earth, the crush'd before the moth ; 

And the deep teaching of such lowly creed 

Best cometh from the dead. 

Ah ! let me kneel 
Here on this mound, where sleeps my early friend. 
And wait her words in lowliness of soul. 
Thou speak'st not to me ! thou whose silver tone 
Did lead the way, in all our sweet discourse. 
When, lost in lonely haunts, we wander'd long. 
Shunning the crowd. Twin-soul thou wert with mine. 
Yet still I think I loved thee not enough 
When thou wert with me. 

Thy clear, welcome voice. 
Thy soft caress at meeting, it would seem 
That sometimes clouds around my spirit hung, 
Checking the fond response. Beloved one. 
Was it not so ? And there were tender words 
I might have said to thee, and said them not. 
And there were higher flights of glorious thought, 
And nobler trophies on life's rugged steep, 
To which 1 might have urged thee. Was it so ? 
Make answer from thy pillow. Blind and weak ! 



I 



OUR TEACHERS. 281 

I thought to have thee ever by my side. 

And so the hours swept by, till thou didst spread 

A sudden wing, and prove thine angel-birth. 

O, by the keen regret of those lost hours, 
Pure spirit ! teach me with firm grasp to seize 
The passing moment, not with duty's deed, 
Or the defrauded sympathies of love, 
To load the uncertain future ; but with prayer 
Propitiate Him who metes our fleeting days, 
And teacheth wisdom from the voiceless tomb. 
A A 2 



LIFE'S EVENING. 



Abide with us, for it is now evening, and the day of Ufe is far spent. 

Bishop Andrews. 

The bright and blooming morn of youth 

Hath faded from the sky, 
And the fresh garlands of our hope 

Are wither'd, sere, and dry ; 
O Thou, whose being hath no end, 

Whose years can ne'er decay, 
Whose strength and wisdom are our trust. 

Abide with us, we pray. 

Behold the noonday sun of life 

Doth seek its western bound, 
And fast the lengthening shadows cast 

A heavier gloom around, 
And all the glow-worm lamps are dead, 

That, kindling round our way, 
Gave fickle promises of joy — 

Abide with us, we pray. 

Dim eve draws on, and many a friend 

Our early path that bless'd, 
Wrapp'd in the cerements of the tomb, 

Have laid them down to rest ; 
But Thou, the Everlasting Friend, 

Whose Spirit's glorious ray 
Can gild the dreary vale of death, 

Abide with us, we pray. 



THE WINTER NOSEGAY. 



Flowers ! fresh flowers, with your fragrance free, 
Have you come in your queenly robes to me ? 
Me have you sought from your far retreat, 
With your greeting lips and your dewy feet, 
And the upward glance of your radiant eye. 
Like angel-guests from a purer sky ? 

But where did ye hide when the frost drew near, 
And your many sisters were blanched with fear ? 
Where did ye hide ? with a blush as bright 
As ye wore amid Eden's vales of light, 
Ere the wile of the tempter its bliss had shamed. 
Or the terrible sword o'er its gateway flamed. 

Flowers, sweet flowers, with your words of cheer. 

Thanks to the friend who hath sent you here ; 

For this, may her blossoms of varied dye 

Be the fairest and first 'neath a vernal sky. 

And she be led, by their whisper'd lore. 

To the love of that land where they fade no more. 



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